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THE 

■ 

LETTERS  OF   CHARLES   LAMB 

1825-1834 
VOLUME  V 


1$> 


Ml 


TV.-fi. 


v.  b 

Copyright,  1906,  by 
The   Bibliophile    Societt 

All  rights  reserved 


479  1/S 


LETTER    CCCCLXI 

CHARLES  LAMB  TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

September  30,  1825. 

Dear  H.,  —  I  came  home  in  a  week  from 
Enfield,  worse  than  I  went.  My  sufferings  have 
been  intense,  but  are  abating.  I  begin  to  know 
what  a  little  sleep  is.  My  sister  has  sunk  under 
her  anxieties  about  me.  She  is  laid  up,  deprived 
of  reason  for  many  weeks  to  come,  I  fear.  She 
is  in  the  same  house,  but  we  do  not  meet.  It 
makes  both  worse.  I  can  just  hobble  down  as 
far  as  the  "  Angel "  once  a  day ;  further  kills 
me.  When  I  can  stretch  to  Copenh  [agen]  Street 
I  will.  If  you  come  this  way  any  morning  I  can 
only  just  shake  you  by  the  hand.  This  gloomy 
house  does  not  admit  of  making  my  friends  wel- 
come. You  have  come  off  triumphant  with 
Bartholomew  Fair.    Yours  (writ  with  difficulty), 

C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXII.  —  TO  WILLIAM  AYRTON 

October,  1825. 

Dear  Ayrton,  —  I  am  not  nor  can  be  forget- 
ful of  you.  All  this  summer  almost  I  have  been 
ill.  I  have  been  laid  up  (the  second  nervous 
attack)  now  six  weeks.    I  have  only  known  what 

9 


sleep  is,  and  that  imperfect,  for  a  week  past.  I 
have  a  medical  attendant  on  me  daily,  and  am 
brought  low,  though  recovering.  In  the  midst  of 
my  sufferings  Mary  was  overcome  with  anxiety 
and  nursing,  and  is  ill  of  her  old  complaint  which 
will  last  for  many  weeks  to  come  ;  she  is  with 
me  in  the  house.  I  have  neither  place  at  present 
to  receive  old  friends,  but  for  a  minute's  chat 
or  so,  nor  strength  for  some  time  I  fear  to 
stretch  to  them.  Mr.  Burney,  who  is  come 
home,  will  corroborate  this.  But  I  hope  again 
to  see  you  and  Mrs.  A.,  for  whose  restoration 
I  heartily  pray.  No  longer  reproach  me,  who 
never  was  but  yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXIII.— TO  THOMAS  ALLSOP 

October  5,  1825. 

Dear  A.,  —  Have  received  your  drafts.  We 
will  talk  that  over  Sunday  morning.  I  am  strong- 
ish,  but  have  not  good  nights,  and  cannot  settle 
my  inside. 

Farewell  till  Sunday. 

I  have  no  possible  use  for  the  first  draft,  so 
shall  keep  them  as  above. 

Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

I  only  trouble  you  now  because,  if  the 
drafts  had  miscarried,  any  one  might  have 
cash'd  'em.  Remember  at  home.  Ludlow  is 
charming. 

10 


CCCCLXIV.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

October  18,  1825. 

Dear  H., — The  first  bit  of  writing  I  have 
done  these  many  weeks.  The  quotations  from 
both  the  Colliers  are  correct,  I  assure  you. 

C.  Lamb,  getting  well,  but  weak 

CCCCLXV.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

October  24,  1825. 

Who  is  your  compositor  ?  I  cannot  praise 
enough  the  beauty  and  accuracy  of  the  Garrick 
Play  types.  That  of  Zelidaura  and  Felisbravo, 
two  or  three  numbers  back,  was  really  a  poser. 
He  must  be  no  ordinary  person  who  got  through 
it  (so  quaint)  without  a  slip.  Not  one  in  10,000 
would  have  done  it.  Moxon  (of  the  great  House 
of  Longman,  Shortman  &  Co.)  is  a  little  fretful 
that  youhave  extracted  a  bit  (only)  from  his  friend 
Cole's  book  about  Hervey  and  Weston  Favell. 
C.  is  gaping  for  it,  and  has  sent  M.  a  very  curi- 
ous old  man's  will  for  your  book,  which  M.  only 
keeps  till  you  gratify  him  by  a  tiny  notice  :  any- 
thing about  the  meditator  among  ye  Tombs. 

CCCCLXVI.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

October  24,  1825. 

I  send  a  scrap.  Is  it  worth  postage  ?  My  friends 
are  fairly  surprised  that  you  should  set  me  down 
so  unequivocally  for  an  ass,  as  you  have  done. 

11 


Here  he  is 

what  follows  ? 

The  Ass 

Call  you  this  friendship  ?    Mercy  !    What  a  dose 

you  have  sent  me  of  Burney  !  —  a  perfect  opening 

(a  pun  here  is  intended)  draught. 

NOTE 

[This  is  written  on  the  back  of  the  MS.  "  In  re  Squirrels  " 
for  Hone's  Every-Day  Book.  Lamb's  previous  contribution 
had  been  The  Ass  which  Hone  had  introduced  with  a  few  words. 
—  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

CCCCLXVII.  — TO  THOMAS  ALLSOP 

December  5,  1825. 

Dear  A.,  —  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  we 
are  at  home  to  visitors ;  not  too  many  or  noisy. 
Some  fine  day  shortly  Mary  will  surprise  Mrs. 
Allsop.  The  weather  is  not  seasonable  for  formal 
engagements.      Yours  most  ever,         C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXVIII.  — TO  THOMAS  MANNING 

December  10,  1825. 

My  dear  M.,  —  We  have  had  sad  ups  and 
downs  since  you  saw  us,  but  are  at  present  in 
untroubled  waters,  though  not  by  them,  for  our 
old  New  River  has  taken  a  jaundice  of  the  muds 
and  rains,  and  looks  as  yellow  as  Miss 

Your  red  trunk  (not  hose,  tho'  a  flame-coloured 
pair  was  once  esteem' d  a  luxury)  is  safe  deposited 

12 


at  the  Peacock,  who  by  the  by  is  worth  your 
seeing.  She  has  had  her  tail  brush' d  up,  and 
looks  as  pert  as  A-goose  with  a  hundred  eyes  in 
My-thology  :  I  don't  know  what  yours  says  of  it. 
Your  gown  will  be  at  the  Bell,  Totteridge,  by 
the  Telegraph  on  Monday  ;  time  enough,  I  hope, 
to  go  out  to  the  curate's  to  an  early  tea  in  it. 
We  have  a  corner  at  double  dumbee  for  you, 
whenever  you  are  dispos'd  to  change  your  Inn. 
Believe  us  yours  as  ever, 

Ch.  and  Mary  Lamb 

CCCCLXIX.  — TO  CHARLES  OLLIER 

December,  1825. 

Dear  O.,  —  I  leave  it  entirely  to  Mr.  Colburn ; 
but  if  not  too  late,  I  think  the  Proverbs  had 
better  have  L.  sign'd  to  them  and  reserve  Elia 
for  Essays  more  Eliacal.  May  I  trouble  you  to 
send  my  Magazine,  not  to  Norris,  but  H.  C. 
Robinson,  Esq.,  King's  Bench  Walks,  instead. 
Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

My  friend  Hood,  a  prime  genius  and  hearty 
fellow,  brings  this. 

CCCCLXX.— TO  CHARLES  OLLIER 

Early,  1826. 

Dear  Oilier,  —  I  send  you  two  more  proverbs, 
which  will  be  the  last  of  this  batch,  unless  I  send 

*3 


you  one  more  by  the  post  on  Thursday ;  none 
will  come  after  that  day ;  so  do  not  leave  any 
open  room  in  that  case.  Hood  sups  with  me 
to-night.  Can  you  come  and  eat  grouse  ?  *T  is 
not  often  I  offer  at  delicacies. 

Yours  most  kindly,  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXI.  — TO  CHARLES  OLLIER 

January,  1826. 

Dear  O.,  —  We  lamented  your  absence  last 
night.  The  grouse  were  piquant,  the  backs  in- 
comparable. You  must  come  in  to  cold  mutton 
and  oysters  some  evening.  Name  your  evening  ; 
though  I  have  qualms  at  the  distance.  Do  you 
never  leave  early  ?  My  head  is  very  queerish, 
and  indisposed  for  much  company  ;  but  we  will 
get  Hood,  that  half  Hogarth,  to  meet  you.  The 
scrap  I  send  should  come  in  after  the  Rising  with 
the  Lark. 

Colburn,  I  take  it,  pays  postages. 

Yours  truly 

CCCCLXXII.  — TO  CHARLES  OLLIER 

January  25,  1826. 

Dear  O.,  —  I  send  you  eight  more  jests,  with 
the  terms  which  my  friend  asks,  which  you  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  get  an  answer  to  from  Mr.  Col- 
burn, that  I  may  tell  him  whether  to  go  on  with 
them.    You  will  see  his  short  note  to  me  at  the 


end,  and  tear  it  off.  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge,  but, 
considering  the  scarceness  of  the  materials,  what 
he  asks  is,  I  think,  mighty  reasonable.  Do  not 
let  him  be  even  known  as  a  friend  of  mine.  You  see 
what  he  says  about  five  going  in  first  as  a  taste, 
but  these  will  make  thirteen  in  all.  Tell  me  by 
what  time  he  need  send  more ;  I  suppose  not 
for  some  time  (if  you  do  not  bring  them  out  this 
month). 

Keep  a  place  for  me  till  the  middle  of  the 
month,  for  I  cannot  hit  on  anything  yet.  I 
mean  nothing  by  my  crotchets  but  extreme 
difficulty  in  writing.  But  I  will  go  on  as  long 
as  I  can.  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXIII.  — TO  MR.  HUDSON 

February  i,  1826. 

Sir,  —  I  was  requested  by  Mr.  Godwin  to  en- 
quire about  a  nurse  that  you  want  for  a  lady  who 
requires  constraint.  The  one  I  know  does  not  go 
out  now ;  but  at  Whitmore  House,  Mr.  War- 
burton's,  Hoxton  (to  which  she  belongs),  I  dare 
say  you  may  be  very  properly  provided.  The  terms 
are  eight-and-twenty  shillings  a  week,  with  her 
board  ;  she  finding  her  beer  and  washing  :  which 
is  less  expensive  than  for  a  female  patient  to  be 
taken  into  a  house  of  that  description  with  any 
tolerable  accommodation. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

C.  Lamb 
l5 


CCCCLXXIV.  —  TO   CHARLES   OLLIER 

February  4,  1826. 

Dear  O.,  —  I  send  a  proverb,  and  a  common 
saying,  which  is  all  I  shall  have  against  next 
month.  What  may  I  say  of  terms  to  my  Chinese 
friend  ?  He  will  be  on  the  fret,  thinking  he  has 
ask'd  more  than  Mr.  C.  will  give,  and  he  won't 
know  whether  to  go  on  translating.  Be  explicit. 
Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

Don't  lose  these :  I  keep  no  copies.  Re- 
member I  don't  want  to  palm  a  friend  upon  the 
Magazine.  I  am  quite  content  with  my  single 
reception  in  it. 

CCCCLXXV.  — TO   CHARLES  OLLIER 

1826. 

Dear  O.,  — We  dine  at  four  on  Monday.  As 
I  expect  the  authoress  to  tea,  pray  have  a  bit  of 
opinion  to  give  on  her  manuscript,  or  she  will 
haunt  me. 

Could  you  let  me  have  the  last  magazine  I 
wrote  in,  and  which  I  had  not  about  July  or 
August  last,  containing  the  Essay  on  Sulkiness, 
being  the  last  of  the  Popular  Fallacies. 

Till  I  see  you.    A-Dieu. 

C.  Lamb 


16 


CCCCLXXVI.  — TO   WILLIAM    HAZLITT 

1826. 

Dear  H., —  Lest  you  should  come  to-morrow, 
I  write  to  say  that  Mary  is  ill  again.  The  last 
thing  she  read  was  the  Thursday  Nights,  which 
seem'd  to  give  her  unmixed  delight,  and  she 
was  sorry  for  what  she  said  to  you  that  night. 
The  Article  is  a  treasure  to  us  for  ever.  Stoddart 
sent  over  the  magazine  to  know  if  it  were  yours, 
and  says  it  is  better  than  Hogarth's  Mod.  Midn. 
Conversation,  with  several  other  most  kind  men- 
tions of  it:  he  signs  his  note,  An  old  Mitre 
Courtian.  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXVII.  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

February  7,  1826. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  got  your  book  not  more  than 
five  days  ago,  so  am  not  so  negligent  as  I  must 
have  appeared  to  you  with  a  fortnight's  sin  upon 
my  shoulders.  I  tell  you  with  sincerity  that  I 
think  you  have  completely  succeeded  in  what 
you  intended  to  do.  What  is  poetry  may  be 
disputed.  These  are  poetry  to  me  at  least.  They 
are  concise,  pithy,  and  moving.  Uniform  as  they 
are,  and  unhistorify'd,  I  read  them  thro'  at  two 
sittings  without  one  sensation  approaching  to 
tedium.  I  do  not  know  that  among  your  many 
kind  presents  of  this  nature  this  is  not  my  favour- 
ite volume.  The  language  is  never  lax,  and  there 

17 


is  a  unity  of  design  and  feeling :  you  wrote  them 
with  love  —  to  avoid  the  cox-combical  phrase 
con  amore.  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  the 
Spiritual  Law,  pages  34-5.  It  reminded  me  of 
Quarles,  and  Holy  Mr.  Herbert,  as  Izaak  Walton 
calls  him :  the  two  best,  if  not  only,  of  our  de- 
votional poets,  tho'  some  prefer  Watts,  and  some 
To?n  Moore. 

I  am  far  from  well  or  in  my  right  spirits,  and 
shudder  at  pen  and  ink  work.  I  poke  out  a 
monthly  crudity  for  Colburn  in  his  magazine, 
which  I  call  Popular  Fallacies,  and  periodically 
crush  a  proverb  or  two,  setting  up  my  folly 
against  the  wisdom  of  nations.  Do  you  see  the 
New  Monthly  ? 

One  word  I  must  object  to  in  your  little 
book,  and  it  recurs  more  than  once — fadeless  is 
no  genuine  compound ;  loveless  is,  because  love 
is  a  noun  as  well  as  verb,  but  what  is  a  fade?  — 
and  I  do  not  quite  like  whipping  the  Greek 
drama  upon  the  back  of  "Genesis,"  page  8.  I 
do  not  like  praise  handed  in  by  disparagement ; 
as  I  objected  to  a  side  censure  on  Byron,  &c,  in 
the  lines  on  Bloomfield :  with  these  poor  cavils 
excepted,  your  verses  are  without  a  flaw. 

C.  Lamb 

My  kind  remembrances  to  your  daughter  and 
A.  K.  always. 


18 


CCCCLXXVIII.  —  TO    CHARLES   OLLIER 

March  16,  1826. 

Dear  Oilier,  —  If  not  too  late,  pray  omit  the 
last  paragraph  in  Actors'  Religion,  which  is 
clumsy.  It  will  then  end  with  the  word  Mug- 
gletonian.  I  shall  not  often  trouble  you  in  this 
manner,  but  I  am  suspicious  of  this  article  as 
lame.  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXIX.  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

March  20,  1826. 

Dear  B.  B.,  — You  may  know  my  letters  by 
the  paper  and  the  folding.  For  the  former,  I 
live  on  scraps  obtained  in  charity  from  an  old 
friend  whose  stationery  is  a  permanent  perquisite ; 
for  folding,  I  shall  do  it  neatly  when  I  learn 
to  tye  my  neckcloths.  I  surprise  most  of  my 
friends  by  writing  to  them  on  ruled  paper, 
as  if  I  had  not  got  past  pothooks  and  hangers. 
Sealing  wax,  I  have  none  on  my  establishment. 
Wafers  of  the  coarsest  bran  supply  its  place. 
When  my  Epistles  come  to  be  weighed  with 
Pliny's,  however  superior  to  the  Roman  in  deli- 
cate irony,  judicious  reflexions,  &c,  his  gilt  post 
will  bribe  over  the  judges  to  him. 

All  the  time  I  was  at  the  East  India  House 
I  never  mended  a  pen;  I  now  cut  'em  to  the 
stumps,  marring  rather  than  mending  the  primi- 
tive goose  quill.    I  cannot  bear  to  pay  for  articles 

?9 


I  used  to  get  for  nothing.  When  Adam  laid  out 
his  first  penny  upon  nonpareils  at  some  stall  in 
Mesopotamos,  I  think  it  went  hard  with  him, 
reflecting  upon  his  old  goodly  orchard,  where 
he  had  so  many  for  nothing.  When  I  write  to 
a  great  man,  at  the  Court  end,  he  opens  with 
surprise  upon  a  naked  note,  such  as  Whitechapel 
people  interchange,  with  no  sweet  degrees  of 
envelope :  I  never  inclosed  one  bit  of  paper  in 
another,  nor  understand  the  rationale  of  it. 
Once  only  I  seal'd  with  borrow'd  wax,  to  set 
Walter  Scott  a-wondering,  sign'd  with  the  im- 
perial quarter' d  arms  of  England,  which  my 
friend  Field  gives  in  compliment  to  his  descent 
in  the  female  line  from  O.  Cromwell.  It  must 
have  set  his  antiquarian  curiosity  upon  watering. 
To  your  questions  upon  the  currency,  I  refer 
you  to  Mr.  Robinson's  last  speech,  where,  if  you 
can  find  a  solution,  I  cannot.  I  think  this,  tho', 
the  best  ministry  we  ever  stumbled  upon.  Gin 
reduced  four  shillings  in  the  gallon,  wine  two 
shillings  in  the  quart.  This  comes  home  to 
men's  minds  and  bosoms.  My  tirade  against 
visitors  was  not  meant  particularly  at  you  or 
A.  K.  I  scarce  know  what  I  meant,  for  I  do  not 
just  now  feel  the  grievance.  I  wanted  to  make 
an  article.  So  in  another  thing  I  talk'd  of  some- 
body's insipid  wife,  without  a  correspondent  object 
in  my  head :  and  a  good  lady,  a  friend's  wife, 
whom  I  really  love  (don't  startle,  I  mean  in  a 
licit  way)   has  looked  shyly  on  me  ever  since. 

20 


The  blunders  of  personal  application  are  ludi- 
crous. I  send  out  a  character  every  now  and 
then,  on  purpose  to  exercise  the  ingenuity  of  my 
friends.  Popular  Fallacies  will  go  on ;  that  word 
"  concluded  "is  an  erratum,  I  suppose,  for  con- 
tinued. I  do  not  know  how  it  got  stuff' d  in 
there.  A  little  thing  without  name  will  also  be 
printed  on  the  Religion  of  the  Actors,  but  it  is  out 
of  your  way,  so  I  recommend  you,  with  true 
author's  hypocrisy,  to  skip  it.  We  are  about  to 
sit  down  to  roast  beef,  at  which  we  could  wish 
A.  K.,  B.  B.,  and  B.  B.'s  pleasant  daughter  to 
be  humble  partakers.  So  much  for  my  hint  at 
visitors,  which  was  scarcely  calculated  for  drop- 
pers in  from  Woodbridge.  The  sky  does  not 
drop  such  larks  every  day. 

My  very  kindest  wishes  to  you  all  three,  with 
my  sister's  best  love.  C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXX.  — TO   S.    T.   COLERIDGE 

March  22,  1826. 

Dear  C,  —  We  will  with  great  pleasure  be 
with  you  on  Thursday  in  the  next  week  early. 
Your  finding  out  my  style  in  your  nephew's  pleas- 
ant book  is  surprising  to  me.  I  want  eyes  to 
descry  it.  You  are  a  little  too  hard  upon  his 
morality,  though  I  confess  he  has  more  of  Sterne 
about  him  than  of  Sternhold.  But  he  saddens 
into  excellent  sense  before  the  conclusion.  Your 
query  shall  be  submitted  to  Miss  Kelly,  though 

21 


it  is  obvious  that  the  pantomime,  when  done, 
will  be  more  easy  to  decide  upon  than  in  pro- 
posal.   I  say,  do  it  by  all  means. 

I  have  Decker's  play  by  me,  if  you  can  filch 
anything  out  of  it.  Miss  Gray,  with  her  kitten 
eyes,  is  an  actress,  though  she  shows  it  not  at  all, 
and  pupil  to  the  former,  whose  gestures  she 
mimics  in  comedy  to  the  disparagement  of  her 
own  natural  manner,  which  is  agreeable.  It  is 
funny  to  see  her  bridling  up  her  neck,  which  is 
native  to  F.  K. ;  but  there  is  no  setting  another's 
manners  upon  one's  shoulders  any  more  than  their 
head.  I  am  glad  you  esteem  Manning,  though 
you  see  but  his  husk  or  shrine.  He  discloses 
not,  save  to  select  worshippers,  and  will  leave  the 
world  without  any  one  hardly  but  me  knowing 
how  stupendous  a  creature  he  is.  I  am  perfect- 
ing myself  in  the  Ode  to  Eton  College  against 
Thursday,  that  I  may  not  appear  unclassic.  I 
have  just  discovered  that  it  is  much  better  than 
the  Elegy.  In  haste,  C.  L. 

P.  S.  —  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  your 
latest  theory  about  Nero  being  the  Messiah, 
though  by  all  accounts  he  was  a  'nointed  one. 

CCCCLXXXI.  — TO    H.    F.  CARY 

April  3,  1826. 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  is  whispered  me  that  you  will 
not  be  unwilling  to  look  into  our  doleful  hermit- 

22 


age.  Without  more  preface,  you  will  gladden 
our  cell  by  accompanying  our  old  chums  of  the 
London,  Darley  and  Allan  Cunningham,  to  En- 
field on  Wednesday.  You  shall  have  hermit's  fare, 
with  talk  as  seraphical  as  the  novelty  of  the  di- 
vine life  will  permit,  with  an  innocent  retrospect 
to  the  world  which  we  have  left,  when  I  will 
thank  you  for  your  hospitable  offer  at  Chiswick, 
and  with  plain  hermit  reasons  evince  the  ne- 
cessity of  abiding  here. 

Without  hearing  from  you,  then,  you  shall 
give  us  leave  to  expect  you.  I  have  long  had  it 
on  my  conscience  to  invite  you,  but  spirits  have 
been  low ;  and  I  am  indebted  to  chance  for  this 
awkward  but  most  sincere  invitation. 

Yours,  with  best  love  to  Mrs.  Cary, 

C.  Lamb 

Darley  knows  all  about  the  coaches.  Oh,  for 
a  Museum  in  the  wilderness! 

CCCCLXXXII.  — TO   CHARLES   OLLIER 

April,  1826. 

Dear  O.,  —  Will  you  let  the  fair  bearer  have 
a  magazine  for  me  for  this  month  (April)  — 
and  can  you  let  me  have  for  my  Chinese  friend 
one  of  last  month  (March)  and  of  this  (in  case 
only  that  something  of  his  is  inserted)  ?  Is  such 
a  privilege  conceded  to  occasional  contributors 
of  having  the  numbers  they  appear  in  ?  I  do  not 

23 


want  it,  if  not  usual,  .  .  .  and  send  a  line  if  he 
may  go  on  with  the  jests.    Yours, 

C.  Lamb 

Write,  if  but  a  line. 

i  Mag.  for  me,  Apr. 

i  for  Chinaman,  March. 

i  Do.  (if  jests  are  in)  Apr. 


3  books,  or  at  least  i  for  me.  If  you  are  out, 
I  '11  call  to-morrow. 

CCCCLXXXIII.  — TO  VINCENT  NOVELLO 

[p.  m.  May  9,  1826.] 

Dear  N.,  —  You  will  not  expect  us  to-morrow, 
I  am  sure,  while  these  damn'd  Northeasters  con- 
tinue. We  must  wait  the  Zephyrs'  pleasures.  By 
the  bye,  I  was  at  Highgate  on  Wensday,  the  only 
one  of  the  Party.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

Summer,  as    my  friend    Coleridge   waggishly 
writes,  has  set  in  with  its  usual  severity. 
Kind  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Novello,  &c. 

CCCCLXXXIV.  —  TO     BERNARD    BARTON 

May  16,  1826. 

Dear  B.  B., —  I  have  had  no  spirits  lately  to 
begin  a  letter  to  you,  though  I  am  under  obliga- 
tions to  you  (how  many!)  for  your  neat  little 
poem.    'Tis  just  what  it  professes  to  be,  a  simple 

24 


tribute  in  chaste  verse,  serious  and  sincere.  I  do 
not  know  how  Friends  will  relish  it,  but  we  out- 
lyers,  Honorary  Friends,  like  it  very  well.  I  have 
had  my  head  and  ears  stufFd  up  with  the  east 
winds.  A  continual  ringing  in  my  brain  of  bells 
jangled,  or  the  spheres  touch'd  by  some  raw 
angel.  It  is  not  George  Third  trying  the  hun- 
dredth psalm  ?  I  get  my  music  for  nothing.  But 
the  weather  seems  to  be  softening,  and  will  thaw 
my  stunnings.  Coleridge  writing  to  me  a  week 
or  two  since  begins  his  note  —  "  Summer  has  set 
in  with  its  usual  severity."  A  cold  summer  is  all 
I  know  of  disagreeable  in  cold.  I  do  not  mind 
the  utmost  rigour  of  real  winter,  but  these  smil- 
ing hypocrites  of  Mays  wither  me  to  death.  My 
head  has  been  a  ringing  chaos,  like  the  day  the 
winds  were  made,  before  they  submitted  to  the 
discipline  of  a  weathercock,  before  the  quarters 
were  made. 

In  the  street,  with  the  blended  noises  of  life 
about  me,  I  hear,  and  my  head  is  lightened,  but 
in  a  room  the  hubbub  comes  back,  and  I  am 
deaf  as  a  sinner.  Did  I  tell  you  of  a  pleasant 
sketch  Hood  has  done,  which  he  calls  Very 
Deaf  Indeed?  It  is  of  a  good-natur'd  stupid- 
looking  old  gentleman,  whom  a  footpad  has 
stopt,  but  for  his  extreme  deafness  cannot  make 
him  understand  what  he  wants ;  the  unconscious 
old  gentleman  is  extending  his  ear-trumpet  very 
complacently,  and  the  fellow  is  firing  a  pistol 
into   it   to   make  him   hear,  but  the  ball  will 

25 


pierce  his  skull  sooner  than  the  report  reach  his 
sensorium.  I  chuse  a  very  little  bit  of  paper,  for 
my  ear  hisses  when  I  bend  down  to  write.  I 
can  hardly  read  a  book,  for  I  miss  that  small 
soft  voice  which  the  idea  of  articulated  words 
raises  (almost  imperceptibly  to  you)  in  a  silent 
reader.  I  seem  too  deaf  to  see  what  I  read.  But 
with  a  touch  or  two  of  returning  Zephyr  my 
head  will  melt.  What  lyes  you  Poets  tell  about 
the  May !  It  is  the  most  ungenial  part  of  the 
year,  cold  crocuses,  cold  primroses,  you  take 
your  blossoms  in  ice,  a  painted  sun,  — 

Unmeaning  joy  around  appears, 
And  Nature  smiles  as  if  she  sneers. 

It  is  ill  with  me  when  I  begin  to  look  which 
way  the  wind  sits.  Ten  years  ago  I  literally  did 
not  know  the  point  from  the  broad  end  of  the 
vane,  which  it  was  that  indicated  the  quarter. 
I  hope  these  ill  winds  have  blow'd  over  you,  as 
they  do  thro'  me.  Kindest  remembrances  to 
you  and  yours.  C.  L. 

CCCCLXXXV.  — TO    S.   T.    COLERIDGE 

June  I,  1826. 

Dear  Coleridge,  —  If  I  know  myself,  nobody 
more  detests  the  display  of  personal  vanity  which 
is  implied  in  the  act  of  sitting  for  one's  picture 
than  myself.  But  the  fact  is,  that  the  likeness 
which  accompanies  this  letter  was  stolen  from 
my  person  at  one  of  my  unguarded  moments  by 

26 


some  too  partial  artist,  and  my  friends  are  pleased 
to  think  that  he  has  not  much  nattered  me. 
Whatever  its  merits  may  be,  you,  who  have  so 
great  an  interest  in  the  original,  will  have  a  sat- 
isfaction in  tracing  the  features  of  one  that  has 
so  long  esteemed  you.  There  are  times  when  in 
a  friend's  absence  these  graphic  representations 
of  him  almost  seem  to  bring  back  the  man  him- 
self. The  painter,  whoever  he  was,  seems  to 
have  taken  me  in  one  of  those  disengaged  mo- 
ments, if  I  may  so  term  them,  when  the  native 
character  is  so  much  more  honestly  displayed 
than  can  be  possible  in  the  restraints  of  an 
enforced  sitting  attitude.  Perhaps  it  rather  de- 
scribes me  as  a  thinking  man  than  a  man  in  the 
act  of  thought.  Whatever  its  pretensions,  I  know 
it  will  be  dear  to  you,  towards  whom  I  should 
wish  my  thoughts  to  flow  in  a  sort  of  an  undress 
rather  than  in  the  more  studied  graces  of  diction. 
I  am,  dear  Coleridge,  yours  sincerely, 

C.  Lamb 

CCCCLXXXVI.  — TO   LOUISA    HOLCROFT 

Enfield,  June  17,  1826. 

Dear  Louisa,  —  I  think  I  know  the  house 
you  have  in  view.  It  is  a  capital  old  manor 
house  lately  in  possession  of  Lord  Cadogan.  But 
whether  it  be  that  or  another,  we  shall  have  in 
the  meantime  a  small  room  and  bed  to  let, 
pretty  cheap,  only  two  smiles  a  week,  and  find 

27 


your  own  washing.  If  you  are  not  already  on 
the  road,  set  out  from  the  Bell,  Holborn,  at 
half-past  four,  and  ask  to  be  set  down  at  Mr. 
Lamb's  on  the  Chase.  Mary  joins  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  you  very  speedily,  and  in  love  to  you 
all.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

Mary  has  left  off  writing  letters ;   I  do  all. 

CCCCLXXXVII.  — TO  JOHN  B.  DIBDIN 

June  30,  1826. 

Dear  D., —  My  first  impulse  upon  opening 
your  letter  was  pleasure  at  seeing  your  old  neat 
hand,  nine  parts  gentlemanly,  with  a  modest  dash 
of  the  clerical :  my  second  a  thought,  natural 
enough  this  hot  weather,  Am  I  to  answer  all 
this?  why  'tis  as  long  as  those  to  the  Ephesians 
and  Galatians  put  together  —  I  have  counted  the 
words  for  curiosity.  But  then  Paul  has  nothing 
like  the  fun  which  is  ebullient  all  over  yours. 
I  don't  remember  a  good  thing  (good  like  yours) 
from  the  1st  Romans  to  the  last  of  the  Hebrews. 
I  remember  but  one  pun  in  all  the  Evangely, 
and  that  was  made  by  his  and  our  Master  :  Thou 
art  Peter  (that  is  Doctor  Rock)  and  upon  this 
rock  will  I  build,  &c. ;  which  sanctifies  punning 
with  me  against  all  gainsayers.  I  never  knew  an 
enemy  to  puns  who  was  not  an  ill-natured  man. 

Your  fair  critic  in  the  coach  reminds  me  of 
a  Scotchman  who  assured  me  that  he  did  not  see 

28 


much  in  Shakspeare.  I  replied,  I  dare  say  not. 
He  felt  the  equivoke,  look'd  awkward,  and  red- 
dish, but  soon  return' d  to  the  attack,  by  saying 
that  he  thought  Burns  was  as  good  as  Shakspeare: 
I  said  that  I  had  no  doubt  he  was  —  to  a  Scotch- 
man. We  exchang'd  no  more  words  that  day. 
Your  account  of  the  fierce  faces  in  the  Hanging, 
with  the  presumed  interlocution  of  the  eagle  and 
the  tiger,  amused  us  greatly.  You  cannot  be  so 
very  bad,  while  you  can  pick  mirth  off  from  rot- 
ten walls.  But  let  me  hear  you  have  escaped  out 
of  your  oven.  May  the  Form  of  the  Fourth 
Person  who  clapt  invisible  wet  blankets  about 
the  shoulders  of  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abed- 
nego,  be  with  you  in  the  fiery  trial.  But  get  out 
of  the  frying-pan.  Your  business,  I  take  it,  is 
bathing,  not  baking. 

Let  me  hear  that  you  have  clamber'd  up  to 
Lover's  Seat ;  it  is  as  fine  in  that  neighbourhood 
as  Juan  Fernandez,  as  lonely  too,  when  the  fish- 
ing-boats are  not  out ;  I  have  sat  for  hours,  star- 
ing upon  a  shipless  sea.  The  salt  sea  is  never  so 
grand  as  when  it  is  left  to  itself.  One  cockboat 
spoils  it.  A  sea-mew  or  two  improves  it.  And 
go  to  the  little  church,  which  is  a  very  protestant 
Loretto,  and  seems  dropt  by  some  angel  for  the 
use  of  a  hermit,  who  was  at  once  parishioner 
and  a  whole  parish.  It  is  not  too  big.  Go  in 
the  night,  bring  it  away  in  your  portmanteau, 
and  I  will  plant  it  in  my  garden.  It  must  have 
been  erected  in  the  very  infancy  of  British  Chris- 

29 


tianity,  for  the  two  or  three  first  converts ;  yet 
hath  it  all  the  appertenances  of  a  church  of  the 
first  magnitude;  its  pulpit,  its  pews,  its  baptismal 
font  —  a  cathedral  in  a  nutshell.  Seven  people 
would  crowd  it  like  a  Caledonian  Chapel.  The 
minister  that  divides  the  word  there,  must  give 
lumping  pennyworths.  It  is  built  to  the  text 
of  "two  or  three  assembled  in  my  name."  It 
reminds  me  of  the  grain  of  mustard  seed.  If  the 
glebe  land  is  proportionate,  it  may  yield  two 
potatoes.  Tythes  out  of  it  could  be  no  more  split 
than  a  hair.  Its  first-fruits  must  be  its  last,  for 
'twould  never  produce  a  couple.  It  is  truly  the 
strait  and  narrow  way,  and  few  there  be  (of  Lon- 
don visitants)  that  find  it.  The  still  small  voice 
is  surely  to  be  found  there,  if  anywhere.  A 
sounding-board  is  merely  there  for  ceremony. 
It  is  secure  from  earthquakes,  not  more  from 
sanctity  than  size,  for  'twould  feel  a  mountain 
thrown  upon  it  no  more  than  a  taper-worm  would. 
Go  and  see,  but  not  without  your  spectacles. 

By  the  way,  there  's  a  capital  farm-house  two- 
thirds  of  the  way  to  the  Lover's  Seat,  with  in- 
comparable plum  cake,  ginger-beer,  &c.  Mary 
bids  me  warn  you  not  to  read  the  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy  in  your  present  low  way.  You  '11  fancy 
yourself  a  pipkin,  or  a  headless  bear,  as  Burton 
speaks  of.  You  '11  be  lost  in  a  maze  of  remedies 
for  a  labyrinth  of  diseasements,  a  plethora  of  cures. 
Read  Fletcher  ;  above  all  the  Spanish  Curate,  the 
Thief,  or  Little  Nightwalker,   the   Wit   Without 

3° 


Money,  and  the  Lover  s  Pilgrimage.  Laugh  and 
come  home  fat.  Neither  do  we  think  Sir  T. 
Browne  quite  the  thing  for  you  just  at  present. 
Fletcher  is  as  light  as  soda-water.  Browne  and 
Burton  are  too  strong  potions  for  an  invalid. 
And  don't  thumb  or  dirt  the  books.  Take  care 
of  the  bindings.  Lay  a  leaf  of  silver  paper  under 
'em,  as  you  read  them.  And  don't  smoke  to- 
bacco over  'em,  —  the  leaves  will  fall  in  and 
burn  or  dirty  their  namesakes.  If  you  find  any 
dusty  atoms  of  the  Indian  weed  crumbled  up  in 
the  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  they  are  mine.  But 
then,  you  know,  so  is  the  folio  also.  A  pipe  and 
a  comedy  of  Fletcher's  the  last  thing  of  a  night 
is  the  best  recipe  for  light  dreams  and  to  scatter 
away  nightmares.  Probatum  est.  But  do  as  you 
like  about  the  former.  Only  cut  the  Baker's. 
You  will  come  home  else  all  crust ;  Rankings 
must  chip  you  before  you  can  appear  in  his 
counting-house. 

And  my  dear  Peter  Fin,  Junr.,  do  contrive  to 
see  the  sea  at  least  once  before  you  return.  You  '11 
be  ask'd  about  it  in  the  Old  Jewry.  It  will 
appear  singular  not  to  have  seen  it.  And  rub  up 
your  Muse,  the  family  Muse,  and  send  us  a 
rhyme  or  so.  Don't  waste  your  wit  upon  that 
damn'd  Dry  Salter.  I  never  knew  but  one  Dry 
Salter,  who  could  relish  those  mellow  effusions, 
and  he  broke.  You  knew  Tommy  Hill,  the 
wettest  of  dry  salters.  Dry  Salters,  what  a  word 
for  this  thirsty  weather !    I  must  drink  after  it. 

31 


Here 's  to  thee,  my  dear  Dibdin,  and  to  our 
having  you  again  snug  and  well  at  Colebrooke. 
But  our  nearest  hopes  are  to  hear  again  from 
you  shortly.  An  epistle  only  a  quarter  as  agree- 
able as  your  last,  would  be  a  treat. 

Yours  most  truly,  C.  Lamb 

note 

[Dibdin,  who  was  in  delicate  health,  had  gone  to  Hastings 
to  recruit,  with  a  parcel  of  Lamb's  books  for  company.  He 
seems  to  have  been  lodged  above  the  oven  at  a  baker's.  This 
letter  contains  Lamb's  crowning  description  of  Hollingdon 
Rural  Church.  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

CCCCLXXXVIII.  — TO   JOHN    B.    DIBDIN 

July  14,  1826. 

Because  you  boast  poetic  Grandsire, 

And  rhyming  kin,  both  Uncle  and  Sire, 

Dost  think  that  none  but  their  Descendings 

Can  tickle  folks  with  double  endings  ? 

I  had  a  Dad,  that  would  for  half  a  bet 

Have  put  down  thine  thro'  half  the  alphabet. 

Thou,  who  would  be  Dan  Prior  the  second, 

For  Dan  Posterior  must  be  reckon'd. 

In  faith,  dear  Tim,  your  rhymes  are  slovenly, 

As  a  man  may  say,  dough-baked  and  ovenly  ; 

Tedious  and  long  as  two  long  Acres, 

And  smell  most  vilely  of  the  Baker's. 

(I  have  been  cursing  every  limb  o'  thee, 

Because  I  could  not  hitch  in  Timothy. 

Jack,  Will,  Tom,  Dicjc  's,  a  serious  evil, 

But  Tim,  plain  Tim's  —  the  very  devil.) 

Thou  most  incorrigible  scribbler, 

Right  Watering  place  and  cockney  dribbler, 

32 


What  child,  that  barely  understands  A, 

B,  C,  would  ever  dream  that  Stanza 

Would  tinkle  into  rhyme  with  "  Plan,  Sir  "  ? 

Go,  go,  you  are  not  worth  an  answer. 

I  had  a  Sire,  that  at  plain  Crambo 

Had  hit  you  o'er  the  pate  a  damn'd  blow. 

How  now  ?  may  I  die  game,  and  you  die  brass, 

But  I  have  stol'n  a  quip  from  Hudibras. 

'T  was  thinking  on  that  fine  old  Suttler,  "j 

That  was  in  faith  a  second  Butler;  > 

Had  as  queer  rhymes  as  he,  and  subtler.  ) 

He  would  have  put  you  to  't  this  weather 

For  rattling  syllables  together ; 

Rhym'd  you  to  death,  like  "  rats  in  Ireland," 

Except  that  he  was  born  in  High'r  Land. 

His  chimes,  not  crampt  like  thine,  and  rung  ill, 

Had  made  Job  split  his  sides  on  dunghill. 

There  was  no  limit  to  his  merryings 

At  christ'nings,  weddings,  nay  at  buryings. 

No  undertaker  would  live  near  him, 

Those  grave  practitioners  did  fear  him ; 

Mutes,  at  his  merry  mops,  turned  "  vocal," 

And  fellows,  hired  for  silence,  "  spoke  all." 

No  body  could  be  laid  in  cavity, 

Long  as  he  lived,  with  proper  gravity. 

His  mirth-fraught  eye  had  but  to  glitter, 

And  every  mourner  round  must  titter. 

The  Parson,  prating  of  Mount  Hermon, 

Stood  still  to  laugh,  in  midst  of  sermon. 

The  final  Sexton  (smile  he  must  for  him) 

Could  hardly  get  to  "  dust  to  dust "  for  him. 

He  lost  three  pall-bearers  their  livelyhood, 

Only  with  simp'ring  at  his  lively  mood : 

Provided  that  they  fresh  and  neat  came, 

All  jests  were  fish  that  to  his  net  came. 

He  'd  banter  Apostolic  castings, 

As  you  jeer  fishermen  at  Hastings. 

When  the  fly  bit,  like  me,  he  leapt-o'er-all, 

And  stood  not  much  on  what  was  scriptural. 

33 


P.S. 

I  had  forgot,  at  Small  Bohemia 

(Enquire  the  way  of  your  maid  Euphemia) 

Are  sojourning,  of  all  good  fellows 

The  prince  and  princess,  —  the  Novellas. 

Pray  seek  'em  out,  and  give  my  love  to  'em  ; 

You  '11  find  you  '11  soon  be  hand  and  glove  to  'em. 

In  prose,  Little  Bohemia,  about  a  mile  from 
Hastings  in  the  Hollington  road,  when  you  can 
get  so  far.  Dear  Dib,  I  find  relief  in  a  word  or 
two  of  prose.  In  truth  my  rhymes  come  slow. 
You  have  "routh  of 'em."  It  gives  us  pleasure 
to  find  you  keep  your  good  spirits.  Your  letter 
did  us  good.  Pray  heaven  you  are  got  out  at 
last.    Write  quickly. 

This  letter  will  introduce  you,  if 'tis  agree- 
able. Take  a  donkey.  'Tis  Novello  the  com- 
poser and  his  wife,  our  very  good  friends. 

C.  L. 

CCCCLXXXIX.— TO  EDWARD  COLERIDGE 

July  19,  1826. 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  was  not  till  to-day  that  I 
learned  the  extent  of  your  kindness  to  my 
friend's  child.  I  never  meant  to  ask  a  favour 
of  that  magnitude.  I  begged  a  civility  merely, 
not  an  important  benefit.  But  you  have  done  it, 
and  S.  T.  C,  who  is  about  writing  to  you,  will 
tell  you  better  than  I  can  how  I  feel  upon  the 
occasion.  It  is  an  alleviation  to  any  uneasy  sense 
of  obligation,  which  will  sometimes  be  upper- 

34 


most,  to  reflect  that  you  could  not  have  served 
a  more  worthy  creature  than  I  believe  Samuel 
Bloxam  to  be.  That  must  be  my  poor  com- 
fort. 

I  remain,  your  faithful  beadsman,  in  less  hon- 
est phrase,  tho'  less  homely,  your  obliged  humble 
servant,  Ch.  Lamb 

CCCCXC— TO  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

September  6,  1826. 

My  dear  Wordsworth,  —  The  bearer  of  this 
is  my  young  friend  Moxon,  a  young  lad  with 
a  Yorkshire  head,  and  a  heart  that  would  do 
honour  to  a  more  Southern  county :  no  offence 
to  Westmoreland.  He  is  one  of  Longman's  best 
hands,  and  can  give  you  the  best  account  of  the 
Trade  as  't  is  now  going ;  or  stopping.  For  my 
part,  the  failure  of  a  bookseller  is  not  the  most 
unpalatable  accident  of  mortality,  — 

sad  but  not  saddest 
The  desolation  of  a  hostile  city. 

When  Constable  fell  from  heaven,  and  we  all 

hoped  Baldwin  was  next,  I  tuned  a  slight  stave 

to  the  words  in  Macbeth  (Davenant's)  to  be  sung 

by  a  chorus  of  authors,  — 

What  should  we  do  when  Booksellers  break? 
We  should  rejoyce. 

Moxon  is  but  a  tradesman  in  the  bud  yet,  and 
retains  his  virgin  honesty ;  Esto  perpetua,  for  he 
is  a  friendly  serviceable  fellow,  and  thinks  no- 

35 


thing  of  lugging  up  a  cargo  of  the  newest  novels 
once  or  twice  a  week  from  the  Row  to  Cole- 
brooke  to  gratify  my  sister's  passion  for  the  new- 
est things.  He  is  her  Bodley.  He  is  author 
besides  of  a  poem  which  for  a  first  attempt  is 
promising.  It  is  made  up  of  common  images, 
and  yet  contrives  to  read  originally.  You  see  the 
writer  felt  all  he  pours  forth,  and  has  not  palmed 
upon  you  expressions  which  he  did  not  believe 
at  the  time  to  be  more  his  own  than  adoptive. 
Rogers  has  paid  him  some  proper  compliments, 
with  sound  advice  intermixed,  upon  a  slight 
introduction  of  him  by  me;  for  which  I  feel 
obliged.  Moxon  has  petition'd  me  by  letter  (for 
he  had  not  the  confidence  to  ask  it  in  London) 
to  introduce  him  to  you  during  his  holydays ; 
pray  pat  him  on  the  head,  ask  him  a  civil  ques- 
tion or  two  about  his  verses,  and  favour  him  with 
your  genuine  autograph.  He  shall  not  be  further 
troublesome.  I  think  I  have  not  sent  any  one 
upon  a  gaping  mission  to  you  a  good  while. 

We  are  all  well,  and  I  have  at  last  broke  the 
bonds  of  business  a  second  time,  never  to  put 
'em  on  again.  I  pitch  Colburn  and  his  maga- 
zine to  the  divil.  I  find  I  can  live  without  the 
necessity  of  writing,  tho'  last  year  I  fretted  my- 
self to  a  fever  with  the  hauntings  of  being 
starved.  Those  vapours  are  flown.  All  the  dif- 
ference I  find  is  that  I  have  no  pocket  money: 
that  is,  I  must  not  pry  upon  an  old  book-stall, 
and  cull  its  contents  as  heretofore,  but  shoulders 

36 


of  mutton,  Whitbread's  entire,  and  Booth's  best, 
abound  as  formerly. 

I  don't  know  whom  or  how  many  to  send 
our  love  to,  your  household  is  so  frequently 
divided,  but  a  general  health  to  all  that  may  be 
fixed  or  wandering  stars,  wherever.  We  read 
with  pleasure  some  success  (I  forget  quite  what) 
of  one  of  you  at  Oxford.  Mrs.  Monkhouse 
(*  *  *  was  one  of  you)  sent  us  a  kind  letter  some 
months  back],  and  we  had  the  pleasure  to  [see] 
ler  in  tolerable  spirits,  looking  well  and  kind  as 
in  bygone  days. 

Do  take  pen,  or  put  it  into  good-natured 
hands  Dorothean  or  Wordsworthian-female,  or 
Hutchinsonian,  to  inform  us  of  your  present 
state,  or  possible  proceedings.  I  am  ashamed 
that  this  breaking  of  the  long  ice  should  be  a 
letter  of  business.  There  is  none  circum  praecordia 
nostra  I  swear  by  the  honesty  of  pedantry,  that 
wil  I  nil  I  pushes  me  upon  scraps  of  Latin.  We 
are  yours  cordially, 

Chas.  and  Mary  Lamb 

note 

[The  following  is  an  abstract  of  what  seems  to  be  Lamb's 
first  letter  to  Edward  Moxon,  obviously  written  before  this 
date,  but  not  out  of  place  here.  The  letter  seems  to  have  ac- 
companied the  proof  of  an  article  on  Lamb  which  he  had 
corrected  and  was  returning  to  Moxon.  I  quote  from 
Sotheby's  catalogue,  May  13,  1903:  "Were  my  own  feel- 
ings consulted  I  should  print  it  verbatim,  but  I  won't  hoax 
you,  else  I  love  a  lye.  My  biography,  parentage,  place  of 
birth,  is  a  strange  mistake,  part  founded  on  some  nonsense 

37 


I  wrote  about  Elia,  and  was  true  of  him,  the  real  Elia,  whose 
name  I  took.  *  *  *  C.  L.  was  born  in  Crown  Office  Row, 
Inner  Temple,  in  1775.  Admitted  into  Christ's  Hospital, 
1782,  where  he  was  contemporary  with  T.  F.  M.  [Thomas 
Fanshawe  Middleton],  afterwards  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  and 
with  S.  T.  C. ;  with  the  last  of  these  two  eminent  scholars 
he  has  enjoyed  an  intimacy  through  life.  On  quitting  this 
foundation  he  became  a  junior  clerk  in  the  South  Sea  House 
under  his  elder  brother,  who  died  accountant  there  some  years 
since.  *  *  *  I  am  not  the  author  of  the  Opium  Eater,  &c." — 
E.  V.  Lucas.] 

CCCCXCI.  — TO  JOHN  BATES  DIBDIN 

September  9,  1826. 

An  answer  is  requested. 
Dear  D.,  —  I  have  observed  that  a  letter  is 
never  more  acceptable  than  when  received  upon 
a  rainy  day  ;  especially  a  rainy  Sunday ;  which 
moves  me  to  send  you  somewhat,  however  short. 
This  will  find  you  sitting  after  breakfast,  which 
you  will  have  prolonged  as  far  as  you  can  with 
consistency  to  the  poor  handmaid  that  has  the 
reversion  of  the  tea  leaves ;  making  two  nibbles 
of  your  last  morsel  of  stale  roll  (you  cannot  have 
hot  new  ones  on  the  Sabbath),  and  reluctantly 
coming  to  an  end,  because  when  that  is  done, 
what  can  you  do  till  dinner  ?  You  cannot  go  to 
the  beach,  for  the  rain  is  drowning  the  sea,  turn- 
ing rank  Thetis  fresh,  taking  the  brine  out  of 
Neptune's  pickles,  while  mermaids  sit  upon  rocks 
with  umbrellas,  their  ivory  combs  sheathed  for 
spoiling  in  the  wet  of  waters  foreign  to  them. 

38 


You  cannot  go  to  the  library,  for  it 's  shut.  You 
are  not  religious  enough  to  go  to  church.  O  it 
is  worth  while  to  cultivate  piety  to  the  gods,  to 
have  something  to  fill  the  heart  up  on  a  wet  Sun- 
day !  You  cannot  cast  accounts,  for  your  ledger 
is  being  eaten  up  with  moths  in  the  Ancient 
Jewry.  You  cannot  play  at  draughts,  for  there 
is  none  to  play  with  you,  and  besides  there  is  not 
a  draught  board  in  the  house.  You  cannot  go  to 
market,  for  it  closed  last  night.  You  cannot  look 
into  the  shops,  their  backs  are  shut  upon  you. 
You  cannot  read  the  Bible,  for  it  is  not  good 
reading  for  the  sick  and  the  hypochondriacal. 
You  cannot  while  away  an  hour  with  a  friend, 
for  you  have  no  friend  round  that  Wrekin.  You 
cannot  divert  yourself  with  a  stray  acquaintance, 
for  you  have  picked  none  up.  You  cannot  bear 
the  chiming  of  bells,  for  they  invite  you  to  a 
banquet,  where  you  are  no  visitant.  You  cannot 
cheer  yourself  with  the  prospect  of  a  to-morrow's 
letter,  for  none  come  on  Mondays.  You  cannot 
count  those  endless  vials  on  the  mantelpiece  with 
any  hope  of  making  a  variation  in  their  numbers. 
You  have  counted  your  spiders:  your  Bastile  is 
exhausted.  You  sit  and  deliberately  curse  your 
hard  exile  from  all  familiar  sights  and  sounds. 
Old  Ranking  poking  in  his  head  unexpectedly 
would  just  now  be  as  good  to  you  as  Grimaldi. 
Anything  to  deliver  you  from  this  intolerable 
weight  of  ennui.  You  are  too  ill  to  shake  it  off: 
not  ill  enough  to  submit  to  it,  and  to  lie  down 

39 


as  a  lamb  under  it.  The  Tyranny  of  Sickness  is 
nothing  to  the  Cruelty  of  Convalescence:  'tis  to 
have  Thirty  Tyrants  for  one.  That  pattering  rain 
drops  on  your  brain.  You  '11  be  worse  after  din- 
ner, for  you  must  dine  at  one  to-day,  that  Betty 
may  go  to  afternoon  service.  She  insists  upon 
having  her  chopped  hay.  And  then  when  she 
goes  out,  who  was  something  to  you,  something 
to  speak  to  —  what  an  interminable  afternoon 
you  '11  have  to  go  thro'.  You  can't  break  your- 
self from  your  locality:  you  cannot  say  "To- 
morrow morning  I  set  off  for  Banstead,by  God; " 
for  you  are  book'd  for  Wednesday.  Foreseeing 
this,  I  thought  a  cheerful  letter  would  come  in 
opportunely.  If  any  of  the  little  topics  for  mirth 
I  have  thought  upon  should  serve  you  in  this  utter 
extinguishment  of  sunshine,  to  make  you  a  little 
merry,  I  shall  have  had  my  ends.  I  love  to  make 
things  comfortable.  [Here  is  an  erasure.]  This, 
which  is  scratch'd  out,  was  the  most  material 
thing  I  had  to  say,  but  on  maturer  thoughts  I 
defer  it. 

P.  S.  —  We  are  just  sitting  down  to  dinner 
with  a  pleasant  party,  Coleridge,  Reynolds  the 
dramatist,  and  Sam  Bloxam:  to-morrow  (that 
is,  to-day),  Liston,  and  Wyat  of  the  Wells,  dine 
with  us.  May  this  find  you  as  jolly  and  freakish 
as  we  mean  to  be. 

C.  Lamb 


40 


CCCCXCIL  —  TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

September  26,  1826. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  don't  know  why  I  have  delay'd 
so  long  writing.  'T  was  a  fault.  The  under-cur- 
rent of  excuse  to  my  mind  was  that  I  had  heard  of 
the  vessel  in  which  Mitford's  jars  were  to  come; 
that  it  had  been  obliged  to  put  into  Batavia  to 
refit  (which  accounts  for  its  delay),  but  was  daily 
expectated.  Days  are  past,  and  it  comes  not,  and 
the  mermaids  may  be  drinking  their  tea  out  of 
his  china  for  aught  I  know ;  but  let 's  hope  not. 
In  the  meantime  I  have  paid  ^28,  &c,  for  the 
freight  and  prime  cost  (which  I  a  little  expected 
he  would  have  settled  in  London).  But  do  not 
mention  it.  I  was  enabled  to  do  it  by  a  receipt 
of  ^30  from  Colburn,  with  whom,  however, 
I  have  done.  I  should  else  have  run  short.  For 
I  just  make  ends  meet.  We  will  wait  the  arrival 
of  the  trinkets,  and  to  ascertain  their  full  expence, 
and  then  bring  in  the  bill.  (Don't  mention  it, 
for  I  daresay  'twas  mere  thoughtlessness). 

I  am  sorry  you  and  yours  have  any  plagues 
about  dross  matters.  I  have  been  sadly  puzzled 
at  the  defalcation  of  more  than  one  third  of  my 
income,  out  of  which  when  entire  I  saved  no- 
thing. But  cropping  off  wine,  old  books,  &c, 
and  in  short  all  that  can  be  call'd  pocket-money, 
I  hope  to  be  able  to  go  on  at  the  cottage.  Re- 
member, I  beg  you  not  to  say  anything  to  Mit- 
ford,  for  if  he  be  honest  it  will  vex  him  :  if  not, 

4i 


which  I  as  little  expect  as  that  you  should  be, 
I  have  a  hank  still  upon  the  jars. 

Colburn  had  something  of  mine  in  last  month, 
which  he  has  had  in  hand  these  seven  months, 
and  had  lost,  or  could  n't  find  room  for :  I  was 
used  to  different  treatment  in  the  London,  and 
have  forsworn  periodicals. 

I  am  going  thro'  a  course  of  reading  at  the 
Museum :  the  Garrick  plays,  out  of  part  of 
which  I  formed  my  Specimens :  I  have  two 
thousand  to  go  thro' ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  have 
despatch'd  the  tythe  of 'em.  It  is  a  sort  of  office 
to  me  ;  hours,  ten  to  four,  the  same.  It  does  me 
good.  Man  must  have  regular  occupation,  that 
has  been  used  to  it.  So  A[nna]  K  [night]  keeps 
a  school !  She  teaches  nothing  wrong,  I  '11  an- 
swer for  't.  I  have  a  Dutch  print  of  a  school- 
mistress ;  little  old-fashioned  Fleminglings,  with 
only  one  face  among  them.  She  a  princess  of 
schoolmistress,  wielding  a  rod  for  form  more 
than  use ;  the  scene  an  old  monastic  chapel,  with 
a  Madonna  over  her  head,  looking  just  as  seri- 
ous, as  thoughtful,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  as  herself. 
'T  is  a  type  of  thy  friend. 

Will  you  pardon  my  neglect  ?  Mind,  again  I 
say,  don't  shew  this  to  M. ;  let  me  wait  a  little 
longer  to  know  the  event  of  his  luxuries.  (I  am 
sure  he  is  a  good  fellow,  tho'  I  made  a  serious 
Yorkshire  lad,  who  met  him,  stare  when  I  said 
he  was  a  clergyman.  He  is  a  pleasant  layman 
spoiled.)    Heaven  send  him  his  jars  uncrack'd, 

42 


and  me  my .    Yours  with  kindest  wishes  to 

your  daughter  and  friend,  in  which  Mary  joins, 

C.  L. 

CCCCXCIIL  — TO   BERNARD    BARTON 

[No  date.] 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  If  you  have  a  convenient  con- 
veyance, pray  transmit  this  to  your  friend  Mr. 
Mitford.  I  have  a  prelibation  of  his  china  for 
him.  It  is  coming  home  by  the  James  Scott  from 
Singapore,  which  I  cannot  learn  is  yet  arrived. 
I  copy  my  friend's  letter  dated  Canton,  Decem- 
ber ;  he  himself  I  find  is  in  England,  having 
prevented  his  own  letter  : 

Dollars 
1 2  flower  stands   i  o}4 
42     "     pots  .     \y2 


1 o  cases  . 

Chinese  duties  .      3^ 


Cost  in  China     27  dollars  at  4/6  £6     1    6 
Freight — Tons  feet 

1      2ij^at  £16  per  ton  22  14    4 

28  15  10 

There  will  be  duties  here  to  pay ;  I  do  not 
know  what.  My  friend  says  he  is  afraid  Mr.  M. 
will  think  them  expensive.  The  articles  them- 
selves, he  will  see,  at  prime  cost,  are  little  or 
nothing,  but   the  freight  is   most   heavy,  and 

43 


would  have  been  half  as  much  more  by  a  Com- 
pany's ship.  I  shall  keep  my  eye  upon  the  arrival 
of  the  "James  Scott,  and  take  measures  accord- 
ingly. Yours  truly,        Chs.  Lamb 

I  want  a  particular  direction  to  Mr.  M.,  that 
the  jars,  when  they  come,  may  be  duly  sent. 

CCCCXCIV.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

September,  1826. 

I  have  had  much  trouble  to  find  Field  to-day. 
No  matter.  He  was  packing  up  for  out  of  town. 
He  has  writ  a  handsomest  letter,  which  you  will 
transmit  to  Murray  with  your  proof-sheets. 
Seal  it.  Yours,  C.  L. 

Mrs.  Hood  will  drink  tea  with  us  on  Thurs- 
day at  half-past  five  at  latest. 

N.  B.  I  have  lost  my  Museum  reading  to-day, 
—  a  day  with  Titus,  —  owing  to  your  dam'd 
bisness.  I  am  the  last  to  reproach  anybody.  I 
scorn  it.  If  you  shall  have  the  whole  book  ready 
soon,  it  will  be  best  for  Murray  to  see. 

CCCCXCV.  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

No  date.    Soon  after  preceding  letter  to  Barton.    1826. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  The  Busy  Bee,  as  Hood  after 
Dr.  Watts  apostrophises  thee,  and  well  dost  thou 
deserve  it  for  thy  labours  in  the  Muses'  gardens, 

44 


wandering  over  parterres  of  think-on-me's  and 
forget-me-nots,  to  a  total  impossibility  of  for- 
getting thee,  —  thy  letter  was  acceptable,  thy 
scruples  may  be  dismissed,  thou  art  rectus  in  Curia, 
not  a  word  more  to  be  said,  verbum  sapienti  and 
so  forth,  the  matter  is  decided  with  a  white 
stone,  classically,  mark  me,  and  the  apparitions 
vanish'd  which  haunted  me,  only  the  cramp, 
Caliban's  distemper,  clawing  me  in  the  calvish 
part  of  my  nature,  makes  me  ever  and  anon  roar 
bullishly,  squeak  cowardishly,  and  limp  cripple- 
ishly.  Do  I  write  quakerly  and  simply  ?  't  is  my 
most  Master  Mathew-like  intention  to  do  it.  See 
Ben  Jonson.  I  think  you  told  me  your  acquaint- 
ance with  the  drama  was  confin'd  to  Shakspeare 
and  Miss  Bailly :  some  read  only  Milton  and 
Croly.    The  gap  is  as  from  an  ananas  to  a  turnip. 

I  have  fighting  in  my  head  the  plots,  charac- 
ters, situations,  and  sentiments  of  four  hundred 
old  plays  (bran  new  to  me)  which  I  have  been 
digesting  at  the  Museum,  and  my  appetite  sharp- 
ens to  twice  as  many  more,  which  I  mean  to 
course  over  this  winter.  I  can  scarce  avoid  dia- 
logue fashion  in  this  letter.  I  soliloquise  my 
meditations,  and  habitually  speak  dramatic  blank 
verse  without  meaning  it. 

Do  you  see  Mitford  ?  he  will  tell  you  some- 
thing of  my  labours.  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  to  have 
mist  seeing  him,  to  have  talk'd  over  those  Old 
Treasures.  I  am  still  more  sorry  for  his  missing 
pots.    But  I  shall  be  sure  of  the  earliest  intelli- 

45 


gence  of  the  Lost  Tribes.  His  Sacred  Specimens 
are  a  thankful  addition  to  my  shelves.  Marry, 
I  could  wish  he  had  been  more  careful  of  corri- 
genda. I  have  discover'd  certain  which  have 
slipt  his  errata.  I  put  'em  in  the  next  page,  as 
perhaps  thou  canst  transmit  them  to  him.  For 
what  purpose  but  to  grieve  him  (which  yet  I 
should  be  sorry  to  do),  but  then  it  shews  my 
learning,  and  the  excuse  is  complimentary,  as  it 
implies  their  correction  in  a  future  edition.  His 
own  things  in  the  book  are  magnificent,  and  as 
an  old  Christ's  Hospitaller  I  was  particularly 
refresh'd  with  his  eulogy  on  our  Edward.  Many 
of  the  choice  excerpta  were  new  to  me. 

Old  Christmas  is  a-coming,  to  the  confusion 
of  Puritans,  Muggletonians,  Anabaptists,  Quakers, 
and  that  Unwassailing  Crew.  He  cometh  not 
with  his  wonted  gait,  he  is  shrunk  nine  inches 
in  the  girth,  but  is  yet  a  lusty  fellow.  Hood's 
book  is  mighty  clever,  and  went  off  six  hun- 
dred copies  the  first  day.  Sioris  Songs  do  not  dis- 
perse so  quickly.  The  next  leaf  is  for  Rev.  J.  M. 
In  this  Adieu  thine  briefly  in  a  tall  friendship, 

C.  Lamb 

CCCCXCVI.  — TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

January,  1827. 

Dear  Allsop,  —  Mary  will  take  her  chance  of 
an  early  lunch  or  dinner  with  you  on  Thursday : 
she  can't  come  on  Wednesday.    If  I  can,  I  will 

46 


fetch  her  home.    But    I    am  near  killed  with 
Christmasing ;  and,  if  incompetent,  your  kind- 
ness will  excuse  me.    I  can  scarce  set  foot  to 
ground  for  a  cramp  that  I  took  me  last  night. 
Yours,  C.  Lamb 

CCCCXCVII.  —  TO   HENRY   C.   ROBINSON 

January  20,  1827. 

Dear  Robinson,  —  I  called  upon  you  this 
morning,  and  found  that  you  were  gone  to  visit 
a  dying  friend.  I  had  been  upon  a  like  errand. 
Poor  Norris  has  been  lying  dying  for  now  al- 
most a  week,  such  is  the  penalty  we  pay  for  hav- 
ing enjoyed  a  strong  constitution  !  Whether  he 
knew  me  or  not,  I  know  not,  or  whether  he  saw 
me  through  his  poor  glazed  eyes ;  but  the  group 
I  saw  about  him  I  shall  not  forget.  Upon  the 
bed,  or  about  it,  were  assembled  his  wife  and 
two  daughters,  and  poor  deaf  Richard,  his  son, 
looking  doubly  stupified.  There  they  were,  and 
seemed  to  have  been  sitting  all  the  week.  I  could 
only  reach  out  a  hand  to  Mrs.  Norris.  Speak- 
ing was  impossible  in  that  mute  chamber.  By 
this  time  I  hope  it  is  all  over  with  him.  In  him 
I  have  a  loss  the  world  cannot  make  up.  He 
was  my  friend  and  my  father's  friend  all  the  life 
I  can  remember.  I  seem  to  have  made  foolish 
friendships  ever  since.  Those  are  friendships 
which  outlive  a  second  generation.  Old  as  I  am 
waxing,  in  his  eyes  I  was  still  the  child  he  first 

47 


knew  me.  To  the  last  he  called  me  Charley.  I 
have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now.  He  was  the 
last  link  that  bound  me  to  the  Temple.  You  are 
but  of  yesterday.  In  him  seem  to  have  died  the 
old  plainness  of  manners  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Letters  he  knew  nothing  of,  nor  did  his  reading 
extend  beyond  the  pages  of  the  Gentleman  s  Maga- 
zine. Yet  there  was  a  pride  of  literature  about 
him  from  being  amongst  books  (he  was  librarian), 
and  from  some  scraps  of  doubtful  Latin  which  he 
had  picked  up  in  his  office  of  entering  students, 
that  gave  him  very  diverting  airs  of  pedantry. 
Can  I  forget  the  erudite  look  with  which,  when 
he  had  been  in  vain  trying  to  make  out  a  black- 
letter  text  of  Chaucer  in  the  Temple  Library, 
he  laid  it  down  and  told  me  that  —  "in  those 
old  books,  Charley,  there  is  sometimes  a  deal  of 
very  indifferent  spelling;"  and  seemed  to  con- 
sole himself  in  the  reflection  !  His  jokes  (for  he 
had  his  jokes)  are  now  ended,  but  they  were  old 
trusty  perennials,  staples  that  pleased  after  decks 
repetita,  and  were  always  as  good  as  new.  One 
song  he  had,  which  was  reserved  for  the  night 
of  Christmas-day,  which  we  always  spent  in  the 
Temple.  It  was  an  old  thing,  and  spoke  of  the 
flat  bottoms  of  our  foes  and  the  possibility  of  their 
coming  over  in  darkness,  and  alluded  to  threats 
of  an  invasion  many  years  blown  over ;  and  when 
he  came  to  the  part,  — 

We  '11  still  make  'em  run,  and  we  '11  still  make  'em  sweat, 
In  spite  of  the  devil  and  Brussels  Gazette  ! 

48 


his  eyes  would  sparkle  as  with  the  freshness  of  an 
impending  event.  And  what  is  the  Brussels  Ga- 
zette now  ?  I  cry  while  I  enumerate  these  trifles. 
"How  shall  we  tell  them  in  a  stranger's  ear?" 
His  poor  good  girls  will  now  have  to  receive 
their  afflicted  mother  in  an  inaccessible  hovel  in 
an  obscure  village  in  Herts,  where  they  have 
been  long  struggling  to  make  a  school  without 
effect;  and  poor  deaf  Richard  —  and  the  more 
helpless  for  being  so  —  is  thrown  on  the  wide 
world. 

My  first  motive  in  writing,  and,  indeed,  in 
calling  on  you,  was  to  ask  if  you  were  enough 
acquainted  with  any  of  the  Benchers,  to  lay  a 
plain  statement  before  them  of  the  circumstances 
of  the  family.  I  almost  fear  not,  for  you  are  of 
another  hall.  But  if  you  can  oblige  me  and 
my  poor  friend,  who  is  now  insensible  to  any 
favours,  pray  exert  yourself.  You  cannot  say  too 
much  good  of  poor  Norris  and  his  poor  wife. 
Yours  ever,     Charles  Lamb 


note 

[This  letter,  describing  the  death  of  Randall  Norris,  Sub- 
Treasurer  and  Librarian  of  the  Inner  Temple,  was  printed 
with  only  very  slight  alterations  in  Hone's  Table  Book,  1827, 
and  again  in  the  Last  Essays  of  E/ia,  1833,  under  the  title 
"  A  Death-Bed."  It  was,  however,  taken  out  of  the  second 
edition,  and  "  Confessions  of  a  Drunkard "  substituted,  in 
deference  to  the  wishes  of  Norris's  family.  Mrs.  Norris 
was  a  native  of  Widford,  where  she  had  known  Mrs.  Field, 
Lamb's  grandmother.  With  her  son  Richard,  who  was  deaf 
and  peculiar,  Mrs.  Norris  moved  to  Widford  again,  where  the 

49 


daughters,  Miss  Betsy  and  Miss  Jane,  had  opened  a  school 
—  Goddard  House ;  which  they  retained  until  a  legacy  re- 
stored the  family  prosperity.  Soon  after  that  they  both  mar- 
ried, each  a  farmer  named  Tween.  They  survived  until  quite 
recently.  Mrs.  Coe,  an  old  scholar  at  the  Misses  Norris's 
school  in  the  twenties,  gave  me,  in  1902,  some  reminiscences 
of  those  days,  from  which  I  quote  a  passage  or  so : 

When  he  joined  the  Norrises'  dinner-table  he  kept  every  one  laughing. 
Mr.  Richard  sat  at  one  end,  and  some  of  the  school  children  would  be  there 
too.  One  day  Mr.  Lamb  gave  every  one  a  fancy  name  all  round  the  table, 
and  made  a  verse  on  each.  "  You  are  so-and-so,"  he  said,  "  and  you  are 
so-and-so,"  adding  the  rhyme.  "  What  * s  he  saying  ?  What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at  ? "  Mr.  Richard  asked  testily,  for  he  was  short-tempered.  Miss 
Betsy  explained  the  joke  to  him,  and  Mr.  Lamb,  coming  to  his  turn, 
said  —  only  he  said  it  in  verse  —  "Now,  Dick,  it's  your  turn.  I  shall 
call  you  Gruborum  ;  because  all  you  think  of  is  your  food  and  your 
stomach."  Mr.  Richard  pushed  back  his  chair  in  a  rage  and  stamped  out 
of  the  room.  "Now  I've  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Lamb  :  "I  must  go  and 
make  friends  with  my  old  chum.  Give  me  a  large  plate  of  pudding  to 
take  to  him."  When  he  came  back  he  said,  "It's  all  right.  I  thought 
the  pudding  would  do  it."  Mr.  Lamb  and  Mr.  Richard  never  got  on 
very  well,  and  Mr.  Richard  didn't  like  his  teasing  ways  at  all  ;  but  Mr. 
Lamb  often  went  for  long  walks  with  him,  because  no  one  else  would. 
He  did  many  kind  things  like  that. 

There  used  to  be  a  half-holiday  when  Mr.  Lamb  came,  partly  because 
he  would  force  his  way  into  the  schoolroom  and  make  seriousness  impos- 
sible. His  head  would  suddenly  appear  at  the  door  in  the  midst  of  les- 
sons, with  "Well,  Betsy  !  How  do,  Jane  ?"  "  O,  Mr.  Lamb  !"  they 
would  say,  and  that  was  the  end  of  work  for  that  day.  He  was  really 
rather  naughty  with  the  children.  One  of  his  tricks  was  to  teach  them 
a  new  kind  of  catechism  (Mrs.  Coe  does  not  remember  it,  but  we  may 
rest  assured,  I  fear,  that  it  was  secular),  and  he  made  a  great  fuss  with 
Lizzie  Hunt  for  her  skill  in  saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards,  which 
he  had  taught  her.  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

CCCCXCVIII.  — TO  HENRY  C.   ROBINSON 

January  20,  1827. 

Dear  R.,  —  N.  is  dead.  I  have  writ  as  nearly 
as  I  could  to  look  like  a  letter  meant  for  your  eye 
only.    Will  it  do  ? 

Could  you  distantly  hint  (do  as  your  own  judg- 

5° 


ment  suggests)  that  if  his  son  could  be  got  in  as 
clerk  to  the  new  subtreasurer,  it  would  be  all  his 
father  wish'd  ?    But  I  leave  that  to  you.    I  don't 
want  to  put  you  upon  anything  disagreeable. 
Yours  thankfully,  C.  L. 

CCCCXCIX.  —  TO  THOMAS  ALLSOP 

January  25,  1827. 

My  dear  Allsop,  —  I  cannot  forbear  thanking 
you  foryour  kind  interference  with  Taylor,  whom 
I  do  not  expect  to  see  in  haste  at  Islington. 

It  is  hardly  weather  to  ask  a  dog  up  here,  but 
I  need  hardly  say  how  happy  we  shall  be  to  see 
you.  I  cannot  be  out  of  evenings  till  John  Frost 
be  routed.  We  came  home  from  Newman  Street 
the  other  night  late,  and  I  was  crampt  all  night. 

Love  to  Mrs.  Allsop.    Yours  truly,     C.  L. 

D.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

January  27,  1827. 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  is  not  unknown  to  you  that 
about  sixteen  years  since  I  published  Specimens  of 
English  Dramatic  Poets  who  lived  about  the  time  of 
Shakspeare.  For  the  scarcer  plays  I  had  recourse 
to  the  collection  bequeathed  to  the  British  Mu- 
seum by  Mr.  Garrick.  But  my  time  was  but 
short;  and  my  subsequent  leisure  has  discovered 
in  it  a  treasure  rich  and  exhaustless  beyond  what 
I  then  imagined.   In  it  is  to  be  found  almost  every 

51 


production,  in  the  shape  of  a  play,  that  has  ap- 
peared in  print  since  the  time  of  the  old  mys- 
teries and  moralities  to  the  days  of  Crown  and 
D'Urfey.  Imagine  the  luxury  to  one  like  me 
—  who,  above  every  other  form  of  poetry,  have 
ever  preferred  the  dramatic  —  of  sitting  in  the 
princely  apartments,  for  such  they  are,  of  poor, 
condemned  Montagu  House, — which,  I  predict, 
will  not  soon  be  followed  by  a  handsomer,  —  and 
culling  at  will  the  flowers  of  some  thousand 
dramas  !  It  is  like  having  the  range  of  a  noble- 
man's library,  with  the  librarian  to  your  friend. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  courteousness  and  atten- 
tions of  the  gentleman  who  has  the  chief  direc- 
tion of  the  reading-rooms  here;  and  you  have 
scarce  to  ask  for  a  volume  before  it  is  laid  before 
you.  If  the  occasional  extracts  which  I  have  been 
tempted  to  bring  away  may  find  an  appropriate 
place  in  your  Table  Book,  some  of  them  are  weekly 
at  your  service.  By  those  who  remember  the 
Specimens  these  must  be  considered  as  mere  after- 
gleanings,  supplementary  to  that  work,  only  com- 
prising a  longer  period.  You  must  be  content 
with  sometimes  a  scene,  sometimes  a  song,  a 
speech,  a  passage,  or  a  poetical  image,  as  they 
happen  to  strike  me.  I  read  without  order  of 
time ;  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  dates ;  and,  for  any 
biography  of  the  dramatists,  I  must  refer  to 
writers  who  are  more  skilful  in  such  matters. 
My  business  is  with  their  poetry  only. 

Your  well-wisher,  C.  Lamb 

52 


DI.  —  TO    HENRY   CRABB    ROBINSON 

January  29,  1827. 

Dear  Robinson,  —  If  you  have  not  seen  Mr. 
Gurney,  leave  him  quite  alone  for  the  present,  I 
have  seen  Mr.  Jekyll,  who  is  as  friendly  as  heart 
can  desire ;  he  entirely  approves  of  my  formula  of 
petition,  and  gave  your  very  reasons  for  the  pro- 
priety of  the  "little  village  of  Hertfordshire." 
Now,  Mr.  G.  might  not  approve  of  it,  and  then 
we  should  clash.  Also,  Mr.  J.  wishes  it  to  be  pre- 
sented next  week,  and  Mr.  G.  might  fix  earlier, 
which  would  be  awkward.  Mr.  J.  was  so  civil 
to  me  that  I  think  it  would  be  better  not  for  you  to 
show  him  that  letter  you  intended.  Nothing  can  in- 
crease his  zeal  in  the  cause  of  poor  Mr.  Norris. 
Mr.  Gardiner  will  see  you  with  this,  and  learn 
from  you  all  about  it,  and  consult,  if  you  have 
seen  Mr.  G.  and  he  has  fixed  a  time,  how  to  put 
it  off.  Mr.  J.  is  most  friendly  to  the  boy :  I  think 
you  had  better  not  tease  the  treasurer  any  more 
about  him,  as  it  may  make  him  less  friendly  to 
the  petition.  Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

DII.  — TO    HENRY   CRABB    ROBINSON 

January,  1827. 

Dear  R.,  —  Do  not  say  anything  to  Mr.  G. 
about  the  day  or  petition,  for  Mr.  Jekyll  wishes 
it  to  be  next  week,  and  thoroughly  approves  of 
my  formula,  and  Mr.  G.  might  not,  and  then  they 

53 


will  clash.  Only  speak  to  him  of  Gardner's  wish  to 
have  the  lad.    Mr.  Jekyll  was  excessive  friendly. 

C.  L. 

Dili.— TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

February  2,  1827. 

My  dear  friend,  —  I  went  to  Highgate  this 
day.  I  gave  to  S.  T.  C.  your  letter  which  he 
immediately  answered,  and  to  which  Mrs.  G. 
insisted  upon  adding  her  own.  They  seem  to 
me  all  exceedingly  to  partake  in  your  troubles. 
Pray  get  over  your  reluctance  to  paying  him 
a  visit,  see  and  talk  with  him.  Hear  what  he  has 
to  say,  connected  closely  with  his  own  expecta- 
tions, as  to  your  desire.  Something,  I  believe,  is 
doing  for  him.  But  hear  him  himself,  look  him 
and  your  affairs  in  the  face.  Older  men  than  you 
have  surmounted  worse  difficulties.  I  should  have 
written  straight  to  you  from  Highgate,  but  we 
have  had  a  source  of  troubles  this  last  week  or  two, 
and  yours  added  to  it,  have  broke  my  spirits.  I 
could  hardly  drag  to  and  from  Highgate.  If  you 
don't  like  to  go,  better  appoint  him  your,  my 
house,  or  anywhere,  but  meet  him.  I  am  sure 
there  is  great  reason  you  should  not  shun  him, 
for  I  found  him  thinking  on  your  perplexities 
and  wanting  to  see  you. 

Mary's  and  my  best  love  to  Mrs.  Allsop, 
Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb 


54 


DIV.— TO   CHARLES   COWDEN    CLARKE 

February  2,  1827. 

Dear  Cowden,  —  Your  books  are  as  the  gush- 
ing of  streams  in  a  desert.  By  the  way,  you  have 
sent  no  autobiographies.  Your  letter  seems  to 
imply  you  had.  Nor  do  I  want  any.  Cowden, 
they  are  of  the  books  which  I  give  away.  What 
damn'd  Unitarian  skewer-soul'd  things  the  gen- 
eral biographies  turn  out. 

Rank  and  Talent  you  shall  have  when  Mrs. 
Mary  has  done  with  'em.  Mary  likes  Mrs.  Bedin- 
Jield  much.    For  me  I  read  nothing  but  Astrea 

—  it  has  turn'd  my  brain  —  I  go  about  with 
a  switch  turn'd  up  at  the  end  for  a  crook  •  and 
Lambs  being  too  old,  the  butcher  tells  me,  my 
cat  follows  me  in  a  green  ribband.  Becky  and 
her  cousin  are  getting  pastoral  dresses,  and  then 
we  shall  all  four  go  about  Arcadizing.  O  cruel 
Shepherdess !  Inconstant  yet  fair,  and  more  in- 
constant for  being  fair !  Her  gold  ringlets  fell 
in  a  disorder  superior  to  order ! 

Come  and  join  us.  I  am  called  the  Black 
Shepherd —  you  shall  be  Cowden  with  the  Tuft. 
Prosaically,  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  both 

—  or  any  two  of  you — drop  in  by  surprise  some 
Saturday  night. 

This  must  go  off.    Loves  to  Vittoria. 

C.  L. 


55 


DV.  —  TO    WILLIAM    HONE 

February  5,  1827. 

For  God's  sake  be  more  sparing  of  your  po- 
etry: your  this  week's  number  has  an  excess 
of  it.  In  haste, 

C.  L. 

DVI.  — TO    B.  R.  HAYDON 

March,  1827. 

Dear  Raffaele  Haydon,  —  Did  the  maid  tell 
you  I  came  to  see  your  picture,  not  on  Sunday  but 
the  day  before  ?  I  think  the  face  and  bearing  of 
the  Bucephalus-tamer  very  noble,  his  flesh  too 
effeminate  or  painty.  The  skin  of  the  female's 
back  kneeling  is  much  more  carnous.  I  had  small 
time  to  pick  out  praise  or  blame, for  two  lord-like 
bucks  came  in,  upon  whose  strictures  my  presence 
seemed  to  impose  restraint :  I  plebeian'd  off  there- 
fore. 

I  think  I  have  hit  on  a  subject  for  you,  but 
can't  swear  it  was  never  executed,  —  I  never 
heard  of  its  being,  —  "Chaucer  beating  a  Fran- 
ciscan Friar  in  Fleet  Street."  Think  of  the  old 
dresses,  houses,  &c.  "It  seemeth  that  both  these 
learned  men  (Gower  and  Chaucer)  were  of  the 
Inner  Temple  ;  for  not  many  years  since,  Master 
Buckley  did  see  a  record  in  the  same  house 
where  Geoffry  Chaucer  was  fined  two  shillings 
for  beating  a  Franciscan  Friar  in  Fleet  Street." 

56 


Chaucer  s  Life  by  T.  Speght,  prefixed  to  the  black 
letter  folio  of  Chaucer,  1598. 
Yours  in  haste  (salt  fish  waiting),  C.  Lamb 

DVIL  — TO   WILLIAM   HONE 

March  20,  1827. 

Damnable  erratum  (can't  you  notice  it  ?)  in  the 
last  line  but  two  of  the  last  Extract  in  No.  9,  Gar- 
rick  Plays,  — 

Blushing  forth  golden  hair  and  glorious  red  : 

A  sun-bright  line  spoil'd. 
67.  Blush  for  Blushing. 

N.  B.  —  The  general  number  was  excellent. 
Also  a  few  lines  higher,  — 

Restrain'd  Liberty  attain'd  is  sweet 

should  have  a  full  stop.  'T  is  the  end  of  the  old 
man's  speech.  These  little  blemishes  kill  such 
delicate  things  ;  prose  feeds  on  grosser  punctual- 
ities. You  have  now  three  numbers  in  hand ; 
one  I  sent  you  yesterday.  Of  course  I  send  no 
more  till  Sunday  week. 

P.S.  Omitted  above,  Dear  Hone.         C.  L. 

DVIII.— TO   VINCENT   NOVELLO 

April,  1827. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  conjure  you,  in  the  name  of  all 
the  Sylvan  Deities,  and  of  the  Muses,  whom  you 

57 


honour,  and  they  reciprocally  love  and  honour 
you,  rescue  this  old  and  passionate  Ditty  —  the 
very  flower  of  an  old,  forgotten  Pastoral,  which, 
had  it  been  in  all  parts  equal,  the  Faithful  Shep- 
herdess of  Fletcher  had  been  but  a  second  name 
in  this  sort  of  writing  —  rescue  it  from  the  pro- 
fane hands  of  every  common  composer ;  and  in 
one  of  your  tranquillest  moods,  when  you  have 
most  leisure  from  those  sad  thoughts  which  some- 
times unworthily  beset  you  —  yet  a  mood  in  it- 
self not  unallied  to  the  better  sort  of  melancholy 
—  laying  by,  for  once,  the  lofty  organ,  with  which 
you  shake  the  Temples,  attune,  as  to  the  pipe  of 
Paris  himself,  to  some  milder  and  love-accord- 
ing instrument,  this  pretty  courtship  between 
Paris  and  his  (then-not-as-yet-forsaken)  QEnone. 
Oblige  me,  and  all  more  knowing  judges  of  mu- 
sic and  of  poesy  by  the  adaptation  of  fit  musical 
numbers,  which  it  only  wants,  to  be  the  rarest 
love  dialogue  in  our  language. 

Your  Implore,  C.  L. 

DIX.  —  TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

April,  1827. 

Dear  H.,  —  Never  come  to  our  house  and  not 
come  in.    I  was  quite  vex'd. 

Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

There  is  in  Blackwood  this  month  an  article 
most  affecting   indeed   called   Le  Revenant,  and 

58 


would  do  more  towards  abolishing  capital  pun- 
ishments than  400,000  Romillies  or  Montagues. 
I  beg  you  read  it  and  see  if  you  can  extract  any 
of  it,  —  the  'Trial  scene  in  particular. 

DX.  — TO   THOMAS   HOOD 

May,  1827. 

Dearest  Hood,  —  Your  news  has  spoil'd  us 
a  merry  meeting.  Miss  Kelly  and  we  were  com- 
ing, but  your  letter  elicited  a  flood  of  tears  from 
Mary,  and  I  saw  she  was  not  fit  for  a  party.  God 
bless  you  and  the  mother  (or  should  be  mother) 
of  your  sweet  girl  that  should  have  been.  I  have 
won  sexpence  of  Moxon  by  the  sex  of  the  dear 
gone  one. 

Yours  most  truly  and  hers,  C.  L. 

DXL  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

1827. 

My  dear  B.  B.,  —  A  gentleman  I  never  saw 
before  brought  me  your  welcome  present  — 
imagine  a  scraping,  fiddling,  fidgeting,  petit- 
maitre  of  a  dancing-school  advancing  into  my 
plain  parlour  with  a  coupee  and  a  sidling  bow, 
and  presenting  the  book  as  if  he  had  been  hand- 
ing a  glass  of  lemonade  to  a  young  miss  — 
imagine  this,  and  contrast  it  with  the  serious 
nature  of  the  book  presented !  Then  task  your 
imagination,  reversing  this  picture,  to  conceive 

59 


of  quite  an  opposite  messenger,  a  lean,  straight- 
locked,  whey-faced  Methodist,  for  such  was  he 
in  reality  who  brought  it,  the  genius  (it  seems) 
of  the  Wesleyan  Magazine. 

Certes,  friend  B.,  thy  Widow's  Tale  is  too 
horrible,  spite  of  the  lenitives  of  religion,  to 
embody  in  verse :  I  hold  prose  to  be  the  appro- 
priate expositor  of  such  atrocities  !  No  offence, 
but  it  is  a  cordial  that  makes  the  heart  sick.  Still 
thy  skill  in  compounding  it  I  do  not  deny.  I 
turn  to  what  gave  me  less  mingled  pleasure.  I 
find  mark'd  with  pencil  these  pages  in  thy  pretty 
book,  and  fear  I  have  been  penurious : 

Page  52>  53.  capital. 

59,  6th  stanza  exquisite  simile. 
6i,  nth  stanza  equally  good. 

108,  3d  stanza,  I  long  to  see  Van  Balen. 

1 1 1 ,  a  downright  good  sonnet.    Dixi. 

153,  lines  at  the  bottom. 
So  you  see,  I  read,  hear,  and  mark,  if  I  don't 
learn ;  in  short  this  little  volume  is  no  discredit 
to  any  of  your  former,  and  betrays  none  of  the 
senility  you  fear  about.  Apropos  of  Van  Balen, 
an  artist  who  painted  me  lately  had  painted  a 
blackamoor  praying,  and  not  filling  his  canvas, 
stuff 'd  in  his  little  girl  aside  of  blacky,  gaping 
at  him  unmeaningly ;  and  then  did  n't  know 
what  to  call  it.  Now  for  a  picture  to  be  pro- 
moted to  the  Exhibition  (Suffolk  Street)  as  His- 
torical, a  subject  is  requisite.  What  does  me  ?  I 
but  christen  it  the  Young  Catechist  and  furbish'd 

60 


it  with  dialogue  following,  which  dubb'd  it  an 
historical  painting.    Nothing  to  a  friend  at  need. 

While  this  tawny  Ethiop  prayeth, 

Painter,  who  is  she  that  stayeth 

By,  with  skin  of  whitest  lustre ; 

Sunny  locks,  a  shining  cluster ; 

Saintlike  seeming  to  direct  him 

To  the  Power  that  must  protect  him  ? 

Is  she  of  the  heav'nborn  Three, 

Meek  Hope,  strong  Faith,  sweet  Charity  ? 

Or  some  cherub  ? 

They  you  mention 
Far  transcend  my  weak  invention. 
'T  is  a  simple  Christian  child, 
Missionary  young  and  mild, 
From  her  store  of  script'ral  knowledge 
(Bible-taught  without  a  college) 
Which  by  reading  she  could  gather, 
Teaches  him  to  say  Our  Father 
To  the  common  Parent,  who 
Colour  not  respects  nor  hue. 
White  and  black  in  him  have  part, 
Who  looks  not  to  the  skin,  but  heart. 

When  I  'd  done  it,  the  artist  (who  had  clapt  in 
Miss  merely  as  a  fill-space)  swore  I  exprest  his 
full  meaning,  and  the  damosel  bridled  up  into 
a  missionary's  vanity.  I  like  verses  to  explain 
pictures:  seldom  pictures  to  illustrate  poems. 
Your  woodcut  is  a  rueful  lignum  mortis.  By  the 
by,  is  the  widow  likely  to  marry  again  ? 

I  am  giving  the  fruit  of  my  Old  Play  reading 
at  the  Museum  to  Hone,  who  sets  forth  a  por- 
tion weekly  in  the  Table  Book.  Do  you  see  it  ? 
How  is  Mitford  ? 

61 


I  '11  just  hint  that  the  pitcher,  the  chord  and 
the  bowl  are  a  little  too  often  repeated  [passim)  in 
your  book,  and  that  on  page  seventeen  last  line 
but  four  him  is  put  for  he,  but  the  poor  widow  I 
take  it  had  small  leisure  for  grammatical  niceties. 
Don't  you  see  there  's  He,  myself,  and  him ;  why 
not  both  him?  likewise  imperviously  is  cruelly 
spelt  imperiously.  These  are  trifles,  and  I  honestly 
like  your  book,  and  you  for  giving  it,  tho'  I 
really  am  ashamed  of  so  many  presents. 

I  can  think  of  no  news,  therefore  I  will  end 
with  mine  and  Mary's  kindest  remembrances  to 
you  and  yours,  C.  L. 

DXII.  — TO  WILLIAM    HONE 

May,  1827. 

Sir,  —  A  correspondent  in  your  last  number 
rather  hastily  asserts  that  there  is  no  other  au- 
thority than  Davenport's  Tragedy  for  the  poison- 
ing of  Matilda  by  King  John.  It  oddly  enough 
happens,  that  in  the  same  number  appears  an 
extract  from  a  play  of  Heywood's,  of  an  older 
date,  in  two  parts,  in  which  play  the  fact  of  such 
poisoning,  as  well  as  her  identity  with  Maid 
Marian,  are  equally  established.  Michael  Dray- 
ton, also,  hath  a  legend  confirmatory  (so  far  as 
poetical  authority  can  go)  of  the  violent  manner 
of  her  death.  But  neither  he  nor  Davenport 
confounds  her  with  Robin's  mistress.  Besides 
the  named  authorities,  old  Fuller,  I  think,  some- 

62 


where  relates,  as  matter  of  chronicle-history, 
that  old  Fitzwater  (he  is  called  Fitzwater  both 
in  Hey  wood  and  in  Davenport),  being  banished 
after  his  daughter's  murder,  —  some  years  subse- 
quently, King  John,  at  a  tournament  in  France, 
being  delighted  with  the  valiant  bearing  of  a 
combatant  in  the  lists,  and  enquiring  his  name, 
was  told  it  was  his  old  servant,  the  banished 
Fitzwater,  who  desired  nothing  more  heartily 
than  to  be  reconciled  to  his  liege ;  and  an 
affecting  reconciliation  followed.  In  the  com- 
mon collection,  called  Robin  Hood's  Garland 
(I  have  not  seen  Ritson's),  no  mention  is  made, 
if  I  remember,  of  the  nobility  of  Marian.  Is 
she  not  the  daughter  of  old  Squire  Gamwell, 
of  Gamwell  Hall  ?  Sorry  that  I  cannot  gratify 
the  curiosity  of  your  "disembodied  spirit"  (who, 
as  such  is,  methinks,  sufficiently  "  veiled  "  from 
our  notice)  with  more  authentic  testimonies,  I 
rest,  Your  humble  Abstractor,  C.  L. 

DXIII.  — TO  WILLIAM   HONE 

End  of  May,  1827. 

Dear  H.,  —  In  the  forthcoming  New  Monthly 
are  to  be  verses  of  mine  on  a  picture  about  angels. 
Translate  'em  to  the  Table-Book.  I  am  off  for 
Enfield.  Yours,  C.  L. 


63 


DXIV.  — TO  WILLIAM   HONE 

June,  1827. 

Dear  Hone,  —  I  should  like  this  in  your  next 
book.    We  are  at  Enfield,  where  (when  we  have 
solituded  a  while)  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you. 
Yours,  C.  Lamb 

DXV.  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

June  11,  1827. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  One  word  more  of  the  picture 
verses,  and  that  for  good  and  all ;  pray,  with  a 
neat  pen  alter  one  line,  — 

His  learning  seems  to  lay  small  stress  on  — 
to,— 

His  learning  lays  no  mighty  stress  on  — 

to  avoid  the  unseemly  recurrence  (ungrammat- 
ical  also)  of  "seems"  in  the  next  line,  besides 
the  nonsense  of  "but"  there,  as  it  now  stands. 
And  I  request  you,  as  a  personal  favour  to  me,  to 
erase  the  last  line  of  all,  which  I  should  never 
have  written  from  myself.  The  fact  is,  it  was 
a  silly  joke  of  Hood's,  who  gave  me  the  frame 
(you  judg'd  rightly  it  was  not  its  own),  with  the 
remark  that  you  would  like  it,  because  it  was 
b — d  b — d,  —  and  I  lugg'd  it  in:  but  I  shall  be 
quite  hurt  if  it  stands,  because  tho'  you  and  yours 
have  too  good  sense  to  object  to  it,  I  would  not 
have  a  sentence  of  mine  seen  that  to  any  foolish 
ear  might  sound  unrespectful  to  thee.    Let  it  end 

64 


at  "  appalling ;  "  the  joke  is  coarse  and  useless, 
and  hurts  the  tone  of  the  rest.  Take  your  best 
"  ivory-handled  "  and  scrape  it  forth. 

Your  specimen  of  what  you  might  have 
written  is  hardly  fair.  Had  it  been  a  present  to 
me,  I  should  have  taken  a  more  sentimental 
tone ;  but  of  a  trifle  from  me  it  was  my  cue  to 
speak  in  an  underish  tone  of  commendation. 
Prudent  givers  (what  a  word  for  such  a  nothing) 
disparage  their  gifts ;  't  is  an  art  we  have.  So 
you  see  you  would  n't  have  been  so  wrong, 
taking  a  higher  tone.    But  enough  of  nothing. 

By  the  bye,  I  suspected  M.  of  being  the  dis- 
parager of  the  frame  ;   hence  a  certain  line. 

For  the  frame,  'tis  as  the  room  is  where  it 
hangs.  It  hung  up  fronting  my  old  cobwebby 
folios  and  batter'd  furniture  (the  fruit  piece  has 
resum'd  its  place)  and  was  much  better  than  a 
spick  and  span  one.  But  if  your  room  be  very 
neat  and  your  other  pictures  bright  with  gilt,  it 
should  be  so  too.  I  can't  judge,  not  having 
seen ;  but  my  dingy  study  it  suited. 

Martin's  Belshazzar  (the  picture)  I  have  seen. 
Its  architectural  effect  is  stupendous ;  but  the 
human  figures,  the  squalling  contorted  little 
antics  that  are  playing  at  being  frighten' d,  like 
children  at  a  sham  ghost  who  half  know  it  to 
be  a  mask,  are  detestable.  Then  the  letters  are 
nothing  more  than  a  transparency  lighted  up, 
such  as  a  Lord  might  order  to  be  lit  up  on 
a  sudden  at  a  Xmas  gambol,  to  scare  the  ladies. 

65 


The  type  is  as  plain  as  Baskerville's  —  they  should 
have  been  dim,  full  of  mystery,  letters  to  the 
mind  rather  than  the  eye. 

Rembrandt  has  painted  only  Belshazzar  and 
a  courtier  or  two  (taking  a  part  of  the  banquet 
for  the  whole)  not  fribbled  out  a  mob  of  fine 
folks.  Then  everything  is  so  distinct,  to  the  very 
necklaces,  and  that  foolish  little  prophet.  What 
one  point  is  there  of  interest  ?  The  ideal  of  such 
a  subject  is,  that  you  the  spectator  should  see 
nothing  but  what  at  the  time  you  would  have 
seen,  the  band —  and  the  King  —  not  to  be  at 
leisure  to  make  taylor-remarks  on  the  dresses, 
or  Doctor  Kitchener-like  to  examine  the  good 
things  at  table. 

Just  such  a  confus'd  piece  is  his  Joshua,  frit- 
ter'd  into  a  thousand  fragments,  little  armies 
here,  little  armies  there :  you  should  see  only 
the  Sun  and  Joshua ;  if  I  remember,  he  has  not 
left  out  that  luminary  entirely,  but  for  Joshua, 
I  was  ten  minutes  a-finding  him  out. 

Still  he  is  showy  in  all  that  is  not  the  human 
figure  or  the  preternatural  interest :  but  the  first 
are  below  a  drawing-school  girl's  attainment, 
and  the  last  is  a  phantasmagoric  trick,  "  Now 
you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see,  dare  is  Balshaz- 
zar  and  dare  is  Daniel." 

You  have  my  thoughts  of  M.  and  so  adieu, 

C.  Lamb 


66 


DXVI.  — TO    HENRY  CRABB    ROBINSON 

June  26,  1827. 

Dear  H.  C,  —  We  are  at  Mrs.  Leishman's, 
Chase,  Enfield.  Why  not  come  down  by  the 
Green  Lanes  on  Sunday  ?  Picquet  all  day.  Pass 
the  church,  pass  the  "  Rising  Sun,"  turn  sharp 
round  the  corner,  and  we  are  the  sixth  or 
seventh  house  on  the  Chase:  tall  elms  darken 
the  door.  If  you  set  eyes  on  M.  Burney,  bring 
him.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DXVII.  — TO   WILLIAM    HONE 

June,  1827. 

Dear  Sir,  —  Somebody  has  fairly  play'd  a  hoax 
on  you  (I  suspect  that  pleasant  rogue  M-x-n)  in 
sending  the  sonnet  in  my  name  inserted  in  your 
last  number.  True  it  is,  that  I  must  own  to  the 
verses  being  mine,  but  not  written  on  the  occa- 
sion there  pretended,  for  I  have  not  yet  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  lady  in  the  part  of 
"Emmeline;"  and  I  have  understood  that  the 
force  of  her  acting  in  it  is  rather  in  the  expres- 
sion of  new-born  sight,  than  of  the  previous 
want  of  it.  The  lines  were  really  written  upon 
her  performance  in  the  Blind  Boy,  and  appeared 
in  the  Morning  Chronicle  years  back.  I  suppose 
our  facetious  friend  thought  that  they  would 
serve  again,  like  an  old  coat  new  turned. 

Yours  (and  his  nevertheless),     C.  Lamb 
67 


DXVIII.  — TO    WILLIAM    HONE  ' 

Early  July,  1827. 

Dear  H.,  —  This  is  Hood's,  done  from  the 
life,  of  Mary  getting  over  a  stile  here.  Mary, 
out  of  a  pleasant  revenge,  wants  you  to  get  it 
engrav'd  in  Table  Book  to  surprise  H.,  who  I 
know  will  be  amus'd  with  you  so  doing. 

Append  some  observations  about  the  awk- 
wardness of  country  stiles  about  Edmonton,  and 
the  difficulty  of  elderly  ladies  getting  over  'em. 

That  is  to  say,  if  you  think  the  sketch  good 
enough. 

I  take  on  myself  the  warranty. 

Can  you  slip  down  here  some  day  and  go 
a-Green-dragoning  ?  C.  L. 

If  you  do,  send  Hood  the  number,  No.  2 
Robert  Street,  Adelphi,  and  keep  the  sketch  for 
me. 

DXIX.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

July  17,  1827. 

Dear  M.,  —  Thanks  for  your  attentions  of 
every  kind.  Emma  will  not  fail  Mrs.  Hood's 
kind  invitation,  but  her  aunt  is  so  queer  a  one 
that  we  cannot  let  her  go  with  a  single  gentle- 
man singly  to  Vauxhall;  she  would  withdraw 

1  An  autograph  facsimile  of  this  note,  together  with  sketch,  appears 
in  its  chronological  order  in  the  back  of  Vol.  I. 

68 


her  from  us  altogether  in  a  fright ;  but  if  any 
of  the  Hoods'  family  accompany  you,  then  there 
can  be  small  objection. 

I  have  been  writing  letters  till  too  dark  to  see 
the  marks.  I  can  just  say  we  shall  be  happy  to 
see  you  any  Sunday  after  the  next:  say,  the  Sun- 
day after,  and  perhaps  the  Hoods  will  come  too 
and  have  a  merry  other  day,  before  they  go  hence. 
But  next  Sunday  we  expect  as  many  as  we  can 
well  entertain. 

With  ours  and  Emma's  acknowledgments, 
Yours,  C.  L. 

DXX.  — TO  P.  G.  PATMORE 

Londres,  Julie  19,  1827. 

Dear  P.,  —  I  am  so  poorly  !  I  have  been  to 
a  funeral,  where  I  made  a  pun,  to  the  consterna- 
tion of  the  rest  of  the  mourners.  And  we  had 
wine.  I  can't  describe  to  you  the  howl  which 
the  widow  set  up  at  proper  intervals.  Dash  could, 
for  it  was  not  unlike  what  he  makes. 

The  letter  I  sent  you  was  one  directed  to  the 
care  of  E.  White,  India  House,  for  Mrs.  Hazlitt. 
Which  Mrs.  Hazlitt  I  don't  yet  know,  but  A. 
has  taken  it  to  France  on  speculation.  Really 
it  is  embarrassing.  There  is  Mrs.  present  H., 
Mrs.  late  H.,  and  Mrs.  John  H.,  and  to  which 
of  the  three  Mrs.  Wiggins's  it  appertains,  I  don't 
know.  I  wanted  to  open  it,  but  it 's  transporta- 
tion. 

69 


I  am  sorry  you  are  plagued  about  your  book. 
I  would  strongly  recommend  you  to  take  for 
one  story  Massinger's  Old  Law.  It  is  exquisite. 
I  can  think  of  no  other. 

Dash  is  frightful  this  morning.  He  whines  and 
stands  up  on  his  hind  legs.  He  misses  Beckey, 
who  is  gone  to  town.  I  took  him  to  Barnet  the 
other  day,  and  he  couldn't  eat  his  victuals  after 
it.    Pray  God  his  intellectuals  be  not  slipping. 

Mary  is  gone  out  for  some  soles.  I  suppose 
't  is  no  use  to  ask  you  to  come  and  partake  of 
'em ;   else  there 's  a  steam-vessel. 

I  am  doing  a  tragi-comedy  in  two  acts,  and 
have  got  on  tolerably  ;  but  it  will  be  refused,  or 
worse.  I  never  had  luck  with  anything  my  name 
was  put  to. 

Oh,  I  am  so  poorly  !  I  waked  it  at  my  cousin's 
the  bookbinder's,  who  is  now  with  God ;  or,  if 
he  is  not,  it 's  no  fault  of  mine. 

We  hope  the  Frank  wines  do  not  disagree  with 
Mrs.  Patmore.    By  the  way,  I  like  her. 

Did  you  ever  taste  frogs  ?  Get  them,  if  you 
can.  They  are  like  little  Lilliput  rabbits,  only 
a  thought  nicer. 

Christ,  how  sick  I  am  !  —  not  of  the  world, 
but  of  the  widow's  shrub.  She  's  sworn  under 
^6000,  but  I  think  she  perjured  herself.  She 
howls  in  E  la,  and  I  comfort  her  in  B  flat.  You 
understand  music  ? 

"  No  shrimps !  "  (That's  in  answer  to  Mary's 
question  about  how  the  soles  are  to  be  done.) 

7° 


I  am  uncertain  where  this  wandering  letter  may 
reach  you.  What  you  mean  by  Poste  Restante, 
God  knows.  Do  you  mean  I  must  pay  the  post- 
age ?   So  I  do  to  Dover. 

We  had  a  merry  passage  with  the  widow  at 
the  Commons.  She  was  howling — part  howl- 
ing and  part  giving  directions  to  the  proctor  — 
when  crash !  down  went  my  sister  through  a  crazy 
chair,  and  made  the  clerks  grin,  and  I  grinned, 
and  the  widow  tittered  —  and  then  I  knew  that  she 
was  not  inconsolable.  Mary  was  more  frightened 
than  hurt.  She  'd  make  a  good  match  for  any- 
body (by  she,  I  mean  the  widow). 

If  he  brings  but  a  relict  away. 

He  is  happy,  nor  heard  to  complain.       Shenstone 

Procter  has  got  a  wen  growing  out  at  the  nape 
of  his  neck,  which  his  wife  wants  him  to  have 
cut  off;  but  I  think  it  rather  an  agreeable  ex- 
crescence —  like  his  poetry  —  redundant.  Hone 
has  hanged  himself  for  debt.  Godwin  was  taken 
up  for  picking  pockets.  Moxon  has  fallen  in  love 
with  Emma,  our  nut-brown  maid.  Beckey  takes 
to  bad  courses.  Her  father  was  blown  up  in  a 
steam  machine.  The  coroner  found  it  insanity. 
I  should  not  like  him  to  sit  on  my  letter. 

Do  you  observe  my  direction  ?  Is  it  Gallic  ?  — 
classical  ? 

Do  try  and  get  some  frogs.  You  must  ask  for 
"  grenouilles  "  (green-eels).  They  don't  under- 
stand "  frogs,"  though  it's  a  common  phrase  with 
us. 

71 


If  you  go  through  Bulloign  (Boulogne)  en- 
quire if  old  Godfrey  is  living,  and  how  he  got 
home  from  the  Crusades.  He  must  be  a  very  old 
man  now. 

If  there  is  anything  new  in  politics  or  litera- 
ture in  France,  keep  it  till  I  see  you  again,  for 
I'm  in  no  hurry.    Chatty-Briant  is  well  I  hope. 

I  think  I  have  no  more  news  ;  only  give  both 
our  loves  ("  all  three,"  says  Dash)  to  Mrs.  Pat- 
more,  and  bid  her  get  quite  well,  as  I  am  at 
present,  bating  qualms,  and  the  grief  incident  to 
losing  a  valuable  relation.  C.  L. 

DXXI.  — TO    MRS.  DILLON 

July  21,  1827. 

I  think  it  is  not  quite  the  etiquette  for  me 
to  answer  my  sister's  letter,  but  she  is  no  great 
scribe,  and  I  know  will  be  glad  to  find  it  done 
for  her.  We  are  both  very  thankful  to  you  for 
your  thinking  about  Emma,  whom  for  the  last 
seven  weeks  I  have  been  teaching  Latin,  and  she 
is  already  qualified  to  impart  the  rudiments  to 
a  child. 

We  shall  have  much  pleasure  in  seeing  Mr. 
Dillon  and  you  again,  but  I  don't  know  when 
that  may  be,  as  we  find  ourselves  very  comfort- 
able at  Enfield. 

My  sister  joins  in  acknowledgments,  and  kind- 
est respects  to  Mr.  Dillon  and  yourself. 

Your  obliged,  C.  Lamb 

72 


DXXII.  — TO  MRS.  PERCY  B.  SHELLEY 

July  25,  1827. 

Dear  Mrs.  Shelley,  —  At  the  risk  of  throwing 
away  some  fine  thoughts,  I  must  write  to  say  how 
pleased  we  were  with  your  very  kind  remember- 
ing of  us  (who  have  unkindly  run  away  from  all 
our  friends)  before  you  go.  Perhaps  you  are  gone, 
and  then  my  tropes  are  wasted.  If  any  piece  of 
better  fortune  has  lighted  upon  you  than  you  ex- 
pected, but  less  than  we  wish  you,  we  are  rejoiced. 
We  are  here  trying  to  like  solitude,  but  have 
scarce  enough  to  justify  the  experiment.  We  get 
some,  however.  The  six  days  are  our  Sabbath ; 
the  seventh  —  why,  Cockneys  will  come  for  a 
little  fresh  air,  and  so  —  But  by  your  month,  or 
October  at  furthest,  we  hope  to  see  Islington : 
I  like  a  giant  refreshed  with  the  leaving  off  of 
wine,  and  Mary,  pining  for  Mr.  Moxon's  books 
and  Mr.  Moxon's  society.    Then  we  shall  meet. 

I  am  busy  with  a  farce  in  two  acts,  the  inci- 
dents tragi-comic.  I  can  do  the  dialogue  commy 
for:  but  the  damned  plot  —  I  believe  I  must 
omit  it  altogether.  The  scenes  come  after  one 
another  like  geese,  not  marshalling  like  cranes  or 
a  Hyde  Park  review.  The  story  is  as  simple  as 
G[eorge]  D[yer],  and  the  language  plain  as  his 
spouse.  The  characters  are  three  women  to  one 
man  ;  which  is  one  more  than  laid  hold  on  him  in 
the  "  Evangely."  I  think  that  prophecy  squinted 
towards  my  drama. 

73 


I  want  some  Howard  Paine  to  sketch  a  skele- 
ton of  artfully  succeeding  scenes  through  a  whole 
play,  as  the  courses  are  arranged  in  a  cookery 
book :  I  to  find  wit,  passion,  sentiment,  char- 
acter, and  the  like  trifles :  to  lay  in  the  dead 
colours, — I  'd  Titianesque  'em  up:  to  mark  the 
channel  in  a  cheek  (smooth  or  furrowed,  yours  or 
mine),  and  where  tears  should  course  I  'd  draw 
the  waters  down  :  to  say  where  a  joke  should 
come  in  or  a  pun  be  left  out :  to  bring  my  personae 
on  and  off  like  a  Beau  Nash  ;  and  I  'd  Franken- 
stein them  there  :  to  bring  three  together  on  the 
stage  at  once  ;  they  are  so  shy  with  me  that  I 
can  get  no  more  than  two  ;  and  there  they  stand 
till  it  is  the  time,  without  being  the  season,  to 
withdraw  them. 

I  am  teaching  Emma  Latin  to  qualify  her  for 
a  superior  governess-ship ;  which  we  see  no 
prospect  of  her  getting.  'T  is  like  feeding  a  child 
with  chopped  hay  from  a  spoon.  Sisyphus — his 
labours  were  nothing  to  it. 

Actives  and  passives  jostle  in  her  numscull, 
till  a  deponent  enters,  like  Chaos,  more  to  em- 
broil the  fray.  Her  prepositions  are  suppositions  ; 
her  conjunctions  copulative  have  no  connection 
in  them ;  her  concords  disagree ;  her  interjections 
are  purely  English  "Ah!"  and  "Oh!"  with  a 
yawn  and  a  gape  in  the  same  tongue  ;  and  she 
herself  is  a  lazy,  block-headly  supine.  As  I  say  to 
her,  ass  in  praesenti  rarely  makes  a  wise  man  in 
futuro. 

74' 


But  I  daresay  it  was  so  with  you  when  you 
began  Latin,  and  a  good  while  after.  Good-bye ! 
Mary's  love.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DXXIII.  — TO   EDWARD   WHITE 

August  i,  1827. 

My  dear  White, —  Never  was  man  so  puzzl'd 
about  mortal  letter  as  I  about  that  you  sent.  Be- 
sides the  two  Mrs.  Hazlitts,  there  was  a  third, 
Mrs.  John  Hazlitt,  who  has  a  boy  abroad,  and 
on  that  ground  was  a  candidate,  but  my  sagacity 
snuff'd  out  the  true  Mrs.  Wiggins,  and  Allsop 
has  by  this  time  deposited  it  at  its  destination,  at 
Paris. 

I  could  but  admire  the  quirk  by  which  you  at- 
tempt to  saddle  me  with  the  postage.  You  come 
into  my  lodgings,  and  expect  me  to  pay  your  rent, 
because  if  I  had  not  quitted  you  would  not  have 
been  charged  with  it.  When  I  threw  off  my  post, 
I  resigned  with  it  both  emoluments  and  incum- 
brances. You  are  welcome  to  all.  Mrs.  Hazlitt 
the  second  might  just  as  well  charge  Mrs.  H.  the 
second  with  the  postage.  It  is  a  perfect  insult 
upon  my  understanding.  Besides,  't  is  mean  in 
a  gentleman  on  the  establishment  and  not  to  be 
thought  on.  Well,  I  forgive  you  and  heartily 
commending  you  to  mind  your  ledger,  and  keep 
your  eye  on  Mr.  Chambers'  balances,  which  you 
understand  better  than  these  matters,  subscribe 
your  friend,  C.  L. 

75 


DXXIV.— TO    MRS.  BASIL   MONTAGU 

Summer,  1827. 

Dear  Madam,  —  I  return  your  list  with  my 
name.  I  should  be  sorry  that  any  respect  should 
be  going  on  towards  [Clarkson],  and  I  be  left  out 
of  the  conspiracy.  Otherwise  I  frankly  own  that 
to  pillarize  a  man's  good  feelings  in  his  lifetime 
is  not  to  my  taste.  Monuments  to  goodness,  even 
after  death,  are  equivocal.  I  turnawayfrom  How- 
ard's, I  scarce  know  why.  Goodness  blows  no 
trumpet,  nor  desires  to  have  it  blown.  We  should 
be  modest  for  a  modest  man  —  as  he  is  for  him- 
self. The  vanities  of  life  —  art,  poetry,  skill  mili- 
tary, are  subjects  for  trophies;  not  the  silent 
thoughts  arising  in  a  good  man's  mind  in  lonely 
places.    Was  I  C[larkson],  I  should  never  be  able 

to  walk  or  ride  near again.   Instead  of  bread, 

we  are  giving  him  a  stone.  Instead  of  the  local- 
ity recalling  the  noblest  moment  of  his  existence, 
it  is  a  place  at  which  his  friends  (that  is,  him- 
self) blow  to  the  world,  "What  a  good  man  is 
he !  "  I  sat  down  upon  a  hillock  at  Forty  Hill 
yesternight  —  a  fine  contemplative  evening, — 
with  a  thousand  good  speculations  about  man- 
kind. How  I  yearned  with  cheap  benevolence  ! 
I  shall  go  and  inquire  of  the  stone-cutter,  that 
cuts  the  tombstones  here,  what  a  stone  with  a 
short  inscription  will  cost ;  just  to  say  —  "  Here 
C.  Lamb  loved  his  brethren  of  mankind."  Ev- 
erybody will  come  there  to  love.    As  I  can't  well 

76 


put  my  own  name,  I  shall  put  about  a  subscrip- 
tion : 

s.  d. 

Mrs. .     .50 

Procter  .  .  .26 
G.  Dyer  .  .10 
Mr.  Godwin  .  o  o 
Mrs.  Godwin  .  o  o 
Mr.  Irving  .     .  a  watch-chain. 


Mr. 


the  proceeds  of  - 


first  edition,  —  a  cap- 
n    s        ital  book,  by  the  bye, 
but  not  over  saleable. 


I  scribble  in  haste  from  here,  where  we  shall 
be  some  time.  Pray  request  Mr.  M[ontagu]  to 
advance  the  guinea  for  me,  which  shall  faith- 
fully be  forthcoming;  and  pardon  me  that  I 
don't  see  the  proposal  in  quite  the  light  that  he 
may.  The  kindness  of  his  motives,  and  his  power 
of  appreciating  the  noble  passage,  I  thoroughly 
agree  in. 

With  most  kind  regards  to  him,  I  conclude, 
Dear  Madam,  yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb 

NOTE 

[The  explanation  of  Lamb's  joke  about  a  watch-chain  is  to 
be  found  in  Carlyle's  Reminiscences.  Irving  had  put  down  as 
his  contribution  to  some  subscription  list,  at  a  public  meeting, 
"  an  actual  gold  watch,  which  he  said  had  just  arrived  to  him 

77 


from  his  beloved  brother  lately  dead  in  India."  This  rather 
theatrical  action  had  evidently  amused  Lamb  as  it  had  dis- 
gusted Carlyle.  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DXXV.  — TO  SIR  JOHN  STODDART 

August  9,  1827. 

Dear  Knight-old-acquaintance,  —  'T  is  with 
a  violence  to  the  pure  imagination  (vide  the  Ex- 
cursion passim)  that  I  can  bring  myself  to  believe 
I  am  writing  to  Dr.  Stoddart  once  again,  at 
Malta.  But  the  deductions  of  severe  reason  war- 
rant the  proceeding.  I  write  from  Enfield,  where 
we  are  seriously  weighing  the  advantages  of 
dulness  over  the  over-excitement  of  too  much 
company,  but  have  not  yet  come  to  a  conclu- 
sion. What  is  the  news  ?  for  we  see  no  paper 
here ;  perhaps  you  can  send  us  an  old  one  from 
Malta.  Only,  I  heard  a  butcher  in  the  market- 
place whisper  something  about  a  change  of  min- 
istry. I  don't  know  who  's  in  or  out,  or  care, 
only  as  it  might  affect  you.  For  domestic  tidings, 
I  have  only  to  tell,  with  extreme  regret,  that  poor 
Eliza  Fenwick  (that  was)  —  Mrs.  Rutherford  — 
is  dead  ;  and  that  we  have  received  a  most  heart- 
broken letter  from  her  mother  —  left  with  four 
grandchildren,  orphans  of  a  living  scoundrel  lurk- 
ing about  the  pothouses  of  Little  Russell  Street, 
London:  they  and  she — God  help 'em  !  —  at 
New  York.  I  have  just  received  Godwin's  third 
volume  of  the  Republic,  which  only  reaches  to 
the  commencement  of  the  Protectorate.  I  think 

78 


he  means  to  spin  it  out  to  his  life's  thread.  Have 
you  seen  Fearn's  Anti-Tooke?  I  am  no  judge  of 
such  things  —  you  are  ;  but  I  think  it  very  clever 
indeed.  If  I  knew  your  bookseller,  I  'd  order  it 
for  you  at  a  venture :  't  is  two  octavos,  Longman 
and  Co.  Or  do  you  read  now  ?  Tell  it  not  in 
the  Admiralty  Court,  but  my  head  aches  hesterno 
vino.  I  can  scarce  pump  up  words,  much  less 
ideas,  congruous  to  be  sent  so  far.  But  your  son 
must  have  this  by  to-night's  post.  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  he  does  not  conduct  himself  so  well  as 
we  could  wish.  He  absented  himself  four  days 
this  week  (this  is  Tuesday)  from  the  Charter 
House,  and  was  found  tippling  at  an  obscure 
public  house  at  Barnet  with  a  chorus  singer  of 
the  Coburg  Theatre.  Mr.  Hine  and  I  with  diffi- 
culty got  him  away ;  but  Doctor  Raine,  the 
head-master,  hushed  it  up  with  a  slight  imposi- 
tion—  viz:  the  translation  of  Gray's  Elegy  into 
Greek  elegiacs  —  which  I  partly  did  for  him. 
I  write  this  with  reluctance  to  offend  the  feel- 
ings of  a  father.  I  might  a'  been  one  if  *  *  *  *  * 
had  let  me. 

Manning  is  gone  to  Rome,  Naples,  &c,  prob- 
ably to  touch  at  Sicily,  Malta,  Guernsey,  &c; 
but  I  don't  know  the  map.  Hazlitt  is  resident 
at  Paris,  whence  he  pours  his  lampoons  in  safety 
at  his  friends  in  England.  He  has  his  boy  with 
him. 

I  am  teaching  Emma  Latin.  By  the  time  you 
can  answer  this,  she  will  be  qualified  to  instruct 

79 


young  ladies :  she  is  a  capital  English  reader:  and 
S.  T.  C.  acknowledges  that  part  of  a  passage  in 
Milton  she  read  better  than  he,  and  part  he  read 
best,  her  part  being  the  shorter.    But,  seriously, 

if  Lady  St (oblivious  pen,  that  was  about  to 

write  Mrs.  /)  could  hear  of  such  a  young  person 
wanted  (she  smatters  of  French,  some  Italian, 
music  of  course),  we  'd  send  our  loves  by  her. 
My  congratulations  and  assurances  of  old  esteem. 

C.  L. 

DXXV1.  — TO   WILLIAM    HONE 

August  10,  1827. 

My  dear  Hone, — We  are  both  excessively 
grieved  at  dear  Matilda's  illness,  whom  we  have 
ever  regarded  with  the  greater  respect.  Pray 
God,  your  next  news,  which  we  shall  expect 
most  anxiously,  shall  give  hopes  of  her  recov- 
ery. 

Mary  keeps  her  health  very  well,  and  joins  in 
kind  remembrances  and  best  wishes. 

A  few  more  numbers  (about  seven)  will 
empty  my  Extract  Book ;  then  we  will  consult 
about  the  Specimens.  By  then,  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  talk  about  business.  How  you  con- 
tinue your  book  at  all,  and  so  well,  in  trying 
circumstances,  I  know  not.  But  don't  let  it  stop. 
Would  to  God  I  could  help  you !  —  but  we 
have  the  house  full  of  company,  which  we  came 
to  avoid.  —  God  bless  you.  C.  L. 

80 


DXXVII.— TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

August  10,  1827. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  have  not  been  able  to  answer 
you,  for  we  have  had,  and  are  having  (I  just 
snatch  a  moment),  our  poor  quiet  retreat,  to 
which  we  fled  from  society,  full  of  company, 
some  staying  with  us,  and  this  moment  as  I 
write  almost  a  heavy  importation  of  two  old 
ladies  has  come  in.  Whither  can  I  take  wing 
from  the  oppression  of  human  faces  ?  Would 
I  were  in  a  wilderness  of  apes,  tossing  cocoa-nuts 
about,  grinning  and  grinned  at ! 

Mitford  was  hoaxing  you  surely  about  my 
engraving ;  't  is  a  little  sixpenny  thing,  too  like 
by  half,  in  which  the  draughtsman  has  done  his 
best  to  avoid  flattery.  There  have  been  two 
editions  of  it,  which  I  think  are  all  gone,  as 
they  have  vanish' d  from  the  window  where  they 
hung,  a  print-shop,  corner  of  Great  and  Little 
Queen  Streets,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where  any 
London  friend  of  yours  may  inquire  for  it ;  for 
I  am  (tho'  you  won't  understand  it)  at  Enfield 
(Mrs.  Leishman's,  Chase).  We  have  been  here 
near  three  months,  and  shall  stay  two  or  more, 
if  people  will  let  us  alone,  but  they  persecute  us 
from  village  to  village.  So  don't  direct  to  Isling- 
ton again,  till  further  notice. 

I  am  trying  my  hand  at  a  drama,  in  two  acts, 
founded  on  Crabbe's  Confidant,  mutatis  mutandis. 

You  like  the  Odyssey.    Did  you  ever  read  my 

81 


Adventures  of  Ulysses,  founded  on  Chapman's  old 
translation  of  it  ?  For  children  or  men,  Chapman 
is  divine,  and  my  abridgment  has  not  quite 
emptied  him  of  his  divinity.  When  you  come 
to  town  I  '11  show  it  you. 

You  have  well  described  your  old-fashioned 
Grand-paternal  Hall.  Is  it  not  odd  that  every 
one's  earliest  recollections  are  of  some  such 
place?  I  had  my  Blakesware  (Blakesmoor  in 
the  London).  Nothing  fills  a  child's  mind  like 
a  large  old  mansion  [one  or  two  words  wafered 
over] ;  better  if  un-or-partially-occupied ;  peo- 
pled with  the  spirits  of  deceased  members  of  the 
County  and  Justices  of  the  Quorum.  Would 
I  were  buried  in  the  peopled  solitude  of  one, 
with  my  feelings  at  seven  years  old. 

Those  marble  busts  of  the  Emperors,  they 
seem'd  as  if  they  were  to  stand  forever,  as  they 
had  stood  from  the  living  days  of  Rome,  in  that 
old  marble  hall,  and  I  to  partake  of  their  per- 
manency ;  Eternity  was,  while  I  thought  not  of 
Time.  But  he  thought  of  me,  and  they  are 
toppled  down,  and  corn  covers  the  spot  of 
the  noble  old  dwelling  and  its  princely  gardens. 
I  feel  like  a  grasshopper  that  chirping  about 
the  grounds  escaped  his  scythe  only  by  my 
littleness.  Ev'n  now  he  is  whetting  one  of  his 
smallest  razors  to  clean  wipe  me  out,  perhaps. 
Well! 


82 


DXXVIIL  —  TO   BERNARD   BARTON 

August  28,  1827. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  am  thankful  to  you  for  your 
ready  compliance  with  my  wishes.  Emma  is 
delighted  with  your  verses,  to  which  I  have 
appended  this  notice  "  The  6  th  line  refers  to 
the  child  of  a  dear  friend  of  the  author's,  named 
Emma,"  without  which  it  must  be  obscure  ;  and 
have  sent  it  with  four  album  poems  of  my  own 
(your  daughter's  with  your  heading,  requesting 
it  a  place  next  mine)  to  a  Mr.  Fraser,  who  is  to 
be  editor  of  a  more  superb  pocket-book  than 
has  yet  appeared  by  far !  the  property  of  some 
wealthy  booksellers,  but  whom,  or  what  its 
name,  I  forgot  to  ask.  It  is  actually  to  have  in 
it  schoolboy  exercises  by  his  present  Majesty  and 
the  late  Duke  of  York,  so  Lucy  will  come  to 
Court ;  how  she  will  be  stared  at !  Wordsworth 
is  named  as  a  contributor.  Frazer,  whom  I  have 
slightly  seen,  is  editor  of  a  forth-come  or  com- 
ing Review  of  foreign  books,  and  is  intimately 
connected  with  Lockhart,  &c,  so  I  take  it  that 
this  is  a  concern  of  Murray's.  Walter  Scott  also 
contributes  mainly.  I  have  stood  off  a  long  time 
from  these  annuals,  which  are  ostentatious  trump- 
ery, but  could  not  withstand  the  request  of  Jame- 
son, a  particular  friend  of  mine  and  Coleridge. 

I  shall  hate  myself  in  frippery,  strutting  along, 
and  vying  finery  with  beaux  and  belles,  — 

with  "  Future  Lord  Byrons  and  sweet  L.  E.  L.'s." 
83 


Your  taste  I  see  is  less  simple  than  mine,  which 
the  difference  of  our  persuasions  has  doubtless 
effected.  In  fact,  of  late  you  have  so  frenchify'd 
your  style,  larding  it  with  hors  de  combats,  and 
au  desopoirs,  that  o'  my  conscience  the  Foxian 
blood  is  quite  dried  out  of  you,  and  the  skipping 
Monsieur  spirit  has  been  infused.  Doth  Lucy 
go  to  balls  ?  I  must  remodel  my  lines,  which  I 
write  for  her.  I  hope  A.  K.  keeps  to  her  Prim- 
itives. If  you  have  anything  you'd  like  to  send 
further,  I  don't  know  Frazer's  address,  but  I 
sent  mine  thro'  Mr.  Jameson,  1 9  or  90  Cheyne 
Street,  Totnam  Court  road.  I  dare  say  an  hon- 
ourable place  wou'd  be  given  to  them ;  but  I 
have  not  heard  from  Frazer  since  I  sent  mine, 
nor  shall  probably  again,  and  therefore  I  do  not 
solicit  it  as  from  him. 

Yesterday  I  sent  off  my  tragi-comedy  to 
Mr.  Kemble.  Wish  it  luck.  I  made  it  all  ('t  is 
blank  verse,  and  I  think,  of  the  true  old  dra- 
matic cut)  or  most  of  it,  in  the  green  lanes  about 
Enfield,  where  I  am  and  mean  to  remain,  in 
spite  of  your  peremptory  doubts  on  that  head. 

Your  refusal  to  lend  your  poetical  sanction  to 
my  Icon,  and  your  reasons  to  Evans,  are  most 
sensible.  Maybe  I  may  hit  on  a  line  or  two  of 
my  own  jocular.    Maybe  not. 

Do  you  never  Londonize  again  ?  I  should  like 
to  talk  over  old  poetry  with  you,  of  which  I 
have  much,  and  you  I  think  little.  Do  your 
Drummonds  allow  no  holydays  ?    I  would  will- 

84 


ingly  come  and  work  for  you  a  three  weeks  or 
so,  to  let  you  loose.  Would  I  could  sell  or  give 
you  some  of  my  leisure  !  Positively,  the  best 
thing  a  man  can  have  to  do  is  nothing,  and  next 
to  that  perhaps  —  good  works. 

I  am  but  poorlyish,  and  feel  myself  writing  a 
dull  letter ;  poorlyish  from  company,  not  gener- 
ally, for  I  never  was  better,  nor  took  more  walks, 

—  fourteen  miles  a  day  on  an  average,  with  a 
sporting  dog  —  Dash  —  you  would  not  know 
the  plain  poet,  any  more  than  he  doth  recognize 
James  Nay  lor  trick' d  out  au  deserpoy  (how  do 
you  spell  it). 

En  passant,  J'aime  entendre  da  mon  bon  homme 
sur  surveillance  de  croix,  ma  pas  V  homme  figuratif 

—  do  you  understand  me  ? 

C.  Lamb 

I  have  left  a  place  for  a  wafer,  but  can't  find 
it  again. 

DXXIX.  — TO  WILLIAM    HONE 

September  2,  1827. 

Dear  Hone,  —  By  the  verses  in  yesterday's 
Table  Book  sign'd  *,  I  judge  you  are  going  on 
better  ;  but  /  want  to  be  resolv'd.  Allsop  promised 
to  call  on  you,  and  let  me  know,  but  has  not. 
Pray  attend  to  this ;  and  send  me  the  number 
before  the  present  (pages  225  to  256),  which 
my  newsman   has  neglected.    Your  book  im- 

85 


proves  every  week.    I  have  written  here  a  thing 
in  two  acts,  and  sent  it  to  Covent  Garden. 

Yours,  C.  Lamb 

DXXX.  — TO   P.  G.  PATMORE 

September,  1827. 

Dear  Patmore, — Excuse  my  anxiety — but  how 
is  Dash  ?  (I  should  have  asked  if  Mrs.  Patmore 
kept  her  rules,  and  was  improving  —  but  Dash 
came  uppermost.  The  order  of  our  thoughts 
should  be  the  order  of  our  writing.)  Goes  he 
muzzled,  or  aperto  ore  ?  Are  his  intellects  sound, 
or  does  he  wander  a  little  in  his  conversation  ? 
You  cannot  be  too  careful  to  watch  the  first 
symptoms  of  incoherence.  The  first  illogical 
snarl  he  makes,  to  St.  Luke's  with  him  !  All 
the  dogs  here  are  going  mad,  if  you  believe  the 
overseers ;  but  I  protest  they  seem  to  me  very 
rational  and  collected.  But  nothing  is  so  de- 
ceitful as  mad  people  to  those  who  are  not  used 
to  them.  Try  him  with  hot  water.  If  he  won't 
lick  it  up,  it  is  a  sign  he  does  not  like  it.  Does 
his  tail  wag  horizontally  or  perpendicularly  ? 
That  has  decided  the  fate  of  many  dogs  in  Enfield. 
Is  his  general  deportment  cheerful  ?  I  mean  when 
he  is  pleased  —  for  otherwise  there  is  no  judging. 
You  can't  be  too  careful.  Has  he  bit  any  of  the 
children  yet  ?  If  he  has,  have  them  shot,  and 
keep  him  for  curiosity,  to  see  if  it  was  the  hydro- 
phobia.   They  say  all  our  army  in  India  had  it 

86 


at  one  time  —  but  that  was  in  Hyder- Ally's  time. 
Do  you  get  paunch  for  him  ?  Take  care  the 
sheep  was  sane.  You  might  pull  out  his  teeth  (if 
he  would  let  you),  and  then  you  need  not  mind 
if  he  were  as  mad  as  a  Bedlamite.  It  would  be 
rather  fun  to  see  his  odd  ways.  It  might  amuse 
Mrs.  Patmore  and  the  children.  They  'd  have 
more  sense  than  he  !  He  'd  be  like -a  fool  kept  in 
the  family,  to  keep  the  household  in  good  humour 
with  their  own  understanding.  You  might  teach 
him  the  mad  dance  set  to  the  mad  howl.  Madge 
Owl-et  would  be  nothing  to  him.  "My,  how  he 
capers  ! "  [In  the  margin  is  written:]  One  of  the 
children  speaks  this. 

[Three  lines  here  are  erased?^  What  I  scratch 
out  is  a  German  quotation  from  Lessing  on  the 
bite  of  rabid  animals ;  but,  I  remember,  you  don't 
read  German.  But  Mrs.  Patmore  may,  so  I  wish 
I  had  let  it  stand.  The  meaning  in  English  is, 
"  Avoid  to  approach  an  animal  suspected  of  mad- 
ness, as  you  would  avoid  fire  or  a  precipice," 
which  I  think  is  a  sensible  observation.  The 
Germans  are  certainly  profounder  than  we. 

If  the  slightest  suspicion  arises  in  your  breast 
that  all  is  not  right  with  him  (Dash),  muzzle 
him,  and  lead  him  in  a  string  (common  pack- 
thread will  do ;  he  don't  care  for  twist)  to  Hood's, 
his  quondam  master,  and  he  '11  take  him  in  at  any 
time.  You  may  mention  your  suspicion  or  not, 
as  you  like,  or  as  you  think  it  may  wound  or  not 
Mr.  H.'s  feelings.    Hood,  I  know,  will  wink  at  a 

87 


few  follies  in  Dash,  in  consideration  of  his  former 
sense.  Besides,  Hood  is  deaf,  and  if  you  hinted 
anything,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  hear  you.  Be- 
sides, you  will  have  discharged  your  conscience, 
and  laid  the  child  at  the  right  door,  as  they  say. 

We  are  dawdling  our  time  away  very  idly  and 
pleasantly,  at  a  Mrs.  Leishman's,  Chace,  Enfield, 
where,  if  you  come  a-hunting,  we  can  give  you 
cold  meat  and  a  tankard.  Her  husband  is  a 
tailor ;  but  that,  you  know,  does  not  make  her 
one.  I  knew  a  jailor  (which  rhymes),  but  his 
wife  was  a  fine  lady. 

Let  us  hear  from  you  respecting  Mrs.  Pat- 

more's  regimen.    I  send  my  love  in  a to 

Dash.  C.  Lamb 

[On  the  outside  of  the  letter  was  written:} 

Seriously,  I  wish  you  would  call  upon  Hood 
when  you  are  that  way.  He  's  a  capital  fellow. 
I  sent  him  a  couple  of  poems  —  one  ordered  by 
his  wife,  and  written  to  order ;  and  't  is  a  week 
since,  and  I  've  not  heard  from  him.  I  fear  some- 
thing is  the  matter. 

Omitted  within  : 

Our  kindest  remembrance  to  Mrs.  P. 

DXXXI.  — TO  JOHN   BATES   D1BDIN 

September  5,  1827. 

Dear  Dib,  —  Emma  Isola,  who  is  with  us,  has 
opened  an  album :  bring  some  verses  with  you 

88 


for  it  on  Saturday  evening.  Any  fun  will  do.  I 
am  teaching  her  Latin ;  you  may  make  some- 
thing of  that.  Don't  be  modest.  For  in  it  you 
shall  appear,  if  I  rummage  out  some  of  your  old 
pleasant  letters  for  rhymes.  But  an  original  is 
better. 

Has  your  pa  —  the  infantile  word  for  father 
—  any  scrap  ?  C.  L. 

We  shall  be  most  glad  to  see  your  sister  or 
sisters  with  you.  Can't  you  contrive  it  ?  Write 
in  that  case. 

DXXXII.  —  TO  JOHN  BATES  DIBDIN 

September  13,  1827. 

Dear  "John,  —  Your  verses  are  very  pleasant, 
and  have  been  adopted  into  the  splendid  Emmatic 
constellation,  where  they  are  not  of  the  least  mag- 
nitude. She  is  delighted  with  their  merit  and 
readiness.  They  are  just  the  thing.  The  14th 
line  is  found.  We  advertised  it.  Hell  is  cooling 
for  want  of  company.  We  shall  make  it  up  along 
with  our  kitchen  fire  to  roast  you  into  our  new 
house,  where  I  hope  you  will  find  us  in  a  few 
Sundays.  We  have  actually  taken  it,  and  a  com- 
pact thing  it  will  be. 

Kemble  does  not  return  till  the  month's  end. 
My  heart  sometimes  is  good,  sometimes  bad, 
about  it,  as  the  day  turns  out  wet  or  walky. 

Emma  has  just  died,  choak'd  with  a  gerund  in 

89 


dum.  On  opening  her  we  found  a  participle  in 
rus  in  the  pericordium.  The  king  never  dies, 
which  may  be  the  reason  that  it  always  reigns 
here.   We  join  in  loves. 

C.  L.,  his  orthograph 

What  a  pen ! 

The  umbrella  is  cum  bak. 

DXXXIII.  — TO  JOHN  BATES  DIBDIN 

September  18,  1827. 

My  dear,  and  now  more  so,  "John, —  How  that 
name  smacks  !  what  an  honest,  full,  English, 
and  yet  withal  holy  and  apostolic  sound  it  bears, 
above  the  methodistical  priggish  bishoppy  name 
of  Timothy,  under  which  I  had  obscured  your 
merits ! 

What  I  think  of  the  paternal  verses,  you  shall 
read  within,  which  I  assure  you  is  not  pen  praise 
but  heart  praise.  It  is  the  gem  of  the  Dibdin 
Muses. 

I  have  got  all  my  books  into  my  new  house, 
and  their  readers  in  a  fortnight  will  follow,  to 
whose  joint  converse  nobody  shall  be  more 
welcome  than  you,  and  any  of  yours.  The  house 
is  perfection  to  our  use  and  comfort. 

Milton  is  come.  I  wish  Wordsworth  were 
here  to  meet  him.  The  next  importation  is  of 
pots  and  saucepans,  window  curtains,  crockery 
and  such  base  ware.  The  pleasure  of  moving, 
when    Becky    moves   for   you.     O   the   moving 

90 


Becky  !  I  hope  you  will  come  and  warm  the 
house  with  the  first. 

From  my  temporary  domicile,  Enfield, 

Eli  a,  that  "is  to  go" 

DXXXIV.  — TO  THOMAS  HOOD 

September  18,  1827. 

Dear  Hood,  —  If  I  have  anything  in  my  head, 

I  will  send  it  to  Mr.  Watts.    Strictly  speaking 

he  should  have  had  my  album-verses,  but  a  very 

intimate  friend  importun'd  me  for  the  trifles,  and 

I  believe  I  forgot  Mr.  Watts,  or  lost  sight  at  the 

time  of  his  similar  souvenir.    Jamieson  conveyed 

the  farce  from  me  to  Mrs.  C.  Kemble ;  he  will 

not  be  in  town  before  the  27th.    Give  our  kind 

loves  to  all  at  Highgate,  and  tell  them  that  we 

have  finally  torn  ourselves  out  right  away  from 

Colebrooke,  where  I  had  no  health,  and  are  about 

to  domiciliate  for  good  at  Enfield,  where  I  have 

experienced  good. 

Lord,  what  good  hours  do  we  keep  ! 
How  quietly  we  sleep  ! 

See  the  rest  in  the  Complete  Angler.  We  have 
got  our  books  into  our  new  house.  I  am  a  dray- 
horse  if  I  was  not  asham'd  of  the  indigested 
dirty  lumber,  as  I  toppled  'em  out  of  the  cart, 
and  blest  Becky  that  came  with  'em  for  her 
having  an  unstufF'd  brain  with  such  rubbish. 
We  shall  get  in  by  Michael's  mass.  'T  was  with 
some   pain   we  were   evuls'd   from   Colebrook. 

91 


You  may  find  some  of  our  flesh  sticking  to  the 
door-posts.  To  change  habitations  is  to  die  to 
them,  and  in  my  time  I  have  died  seven  deaths. 
But  I  don't  know  whether  every  such  change 
does  not  bring  with  it  a  rejuvenescence.  'Tis  an 
enterprise,  and  shoves  back  the  sense  of  death's 
approximating,  which,  tho'  not  terrible  to  me, 
is  at  all  times  particularly  distasteful.  My  house- 
deaths  have  generally  been  periodical,  recurring 
after  seven  years,  but  this  last  is  premature  by 
half  that  time.  Cut  off  in  the  flower  of  Cole- 
brook.  The  Middletonian  stream  and  all  its 
echoes  mourn.  Even  minnows  dwindle.  A  par- 
vis  jiunt  minimi. 

I  fear  to  invite  Mrs.  Hood  to  our  new  man- 
sion, lest  she  envy  it,  and  hate  us.  But  when  we 
are  fairly  in,  I  hope  she  will  come  and  try  it. 
I  heard  she  and  you  were  made  uncomfortable 
by  some  unworthy-to-be-cared-for  attacks,  and 
have  tried  to  set  up  a  feeble  counteraction  thro' 
the  Table  Book  of  last  Saturday.  Has  it  not  reach'd 
you,  that  you  are  silent  about  it  ?  Our  new  domi- 
cile is  no  manor-house,  but  new,  and  externally 
not  inviting,  but  furnish'd  within  with  every 
convenience.  Capital  new  locks  to  every  door, 
capital  grates  in  every  room,  with  nothing  to 
pay  for  incoming;  and  the  rent  £10  less  than 
the  Islington  one.  It  was  built  a  few  years  since 
at  ^noo  expence,  they  tell  me,  and  I  perfectly 
believe  it.  And  I  get  it  for  j[^5  exclusive  of 
moderate  taxes.   We  think  ourselves  most  lucky. 

92 


It  is  not  our  intention  to  abandon  Regent  Street 
and  West  End  perambulations  (monastic  and  ter- 
rible thought!)  but  occasionally  to  breathe  the 
fresher  air  of  the  metropolis.  We  shall  put  up 
a  bedroom  or  two  (all  we  want)  for  occasional 
ex-rustication,  where  we  shall  visit,  not  be  vis- 
ited. Plays  too  we '11  see,  —  perhaps  our  own. 
Urbani  Sylvani  and  Sylvan  Urbanuses  in  turns. 
Courtiers  for  a  spurt,  then  philosophers.  Old 
homely  tell-truths  and  learn-truths  in  the  virtu- 
ous shades  of  Enfield,  liars  again  and  mocking 
gibers  in  the  coffee-houses  and  resorts  of  London. 
What  can  a  mortal  desire  more  for  his  bi-parted 
nature  ? 

O  the  curds  —  and  —  cream  you  shall  eat  with 
us  here ! 

O  the  turtle-soup  and  lobster-salads  we  shall 
devour  with  you  there  ! 

O  the  old  books  we  shall  peruse  here ! 

O  the  new  nonsense  we  shall  trifle  over  there  ! 

O  Sir  T.  Browne,  here ! 

O  Mr.  Hood  and  Mr.  Jerdan,  there  ! 
Thine,  C(urbanus)  L(syfoanus)  (Eli A  ambo) 

Inclos'd  are  verses  which  Emma  sat  down  to 
write,  her  first,  on  the  eve  after  your  departure. 
Of  course  they  are  only  for  Mrs.  H.'s  perusal. 
They  will  shew  at  least,  that  one  of  our  party  is 
not  willing  to  cut  old  friends.  What  to  call  'em 
I  don't  know.  Blank  verse  they  are  not,  because 
of  the  rhymes  —  rhymes  they  are  not,  because  of 

93 


the  blank  verse.  Heroics  they  are  not,  because 
they  are  lyric  —  lyric  they  are  not,  because  of  the 
heroic  measure.    They  must  be  call'd  Etnmaics. 

DXXXV.  — TO  HENRY  COLBURN 

September  25,  1827. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  beg  leave,  in  the  warmest  manner, 
to  recommend  to  your  notice,  Mr.  Moxon,  the 
bearer  of  this,  if  by  any  chance  yourself  should 
want  a  steady  hand  in  your  business,  or  know  of 
any  publisher  that  may  want  such  a  one.  He  is 
at  present  in  the  house  of  Messrs.  Longman  & 
Co.,  where  he  has  been  established  for  more  than 
six  years,  and  has  the  conduct  of  one  of  the  four 
departments  of  the  country  line.  A  difference 
respecting  salary,  which  he  expected  to  be  a  little 
raised  on  his  last  promotion,  makes  him  wish  to 
try  to  better  himself.  I  believe  him  to  be  a  young 
man  of  the  highest  integrity,  and  a  thorough 
man  of  business ;  and  should  not  have  taken 
the  liberty  of  recommending  him,  if  I  had  not 
thought  him  capable  of  being  highly  useful. 

I  am,  Sir,  with  great  respect, 
Your  humble  servant,     Charles  Lamb 

DXXXVI.  — TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

September  25,  1827. 

Dear  Allsop,  —  Your  kindness  pursues  us  ev- 
erywhere.   That  81.4.6.  is  a  substantial  proof, 

94 


I  think  ;  I  never  should  have  ask'd  for  it.  Pray 
keep  it,  when  you  get  it,  till  we  see  each  other. 
I  have  plenty  of  current  cash ;  thank  you  over 
and  over  for  your  offer. 

We  came  down  on  Monday  with  Miss  James. 
The  first  night  I  lay  broad  awake  like  an  owl 
till  eight  o'clock,  then  got  a  poor  doze.  Have 
had  something  like  sleep  and  a  forgetting  last 
night.  We  go  on  tolerably  in  this  deserted  house. 
It  is  melancholy,  but  I  could  not  have  gone  into 
a  quite  strange  one. 

Newspapers  come  to  you  here.  Pray  stop 
them.    Shall  I  send  what  have  come  ? 

Give  mine  and  Mary's  kindest  love  to  Mrs. 
Allsop,  with  every  good  wish  to  Elizabeth  and 
Rob.  This  house  is  not  what  it  was.  May  we 
all  meet  chearful  some  day  soon. 

Yours  gratefully  and  sincerely,      C.  Lamb 

How  long  a  letter  have  I  written  with  my  own 
hand. 

Jane  says  she  has  sent  a  cradle  yesterday  morn- 
ing ;  she  does  for  us  very  well. 

DXXXVII.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

September  26,  1827. 

Dear  M.,  —  Our  pleasant  meetings  for  some 
time  are  suspended.  My  sister  was  taken  very  ill  in 
a  few  hours  after  you  left  us  (I  had  suspected  it),  — 
and  I  must  wait  eight  or  nine  weeks  in  slow  hope 

95 


of  her  recovery.  It  is  her  old  complaint.  You 
will  say  as  much  to  the  Hoods,  and  to  Mrs.  Love- 
kin,  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  with  my  kind  love. 

We  are  in  the  house,  that  is  all.  I  hope  one 
day  we  shall  both  enjoy  it,  and  see  our  friends 
again.    But  till  then  I  must  be  a  solitary  nurse. 

I  am  trying  Becky's  sister  to  be  with  her,  so 
don't  say  anything  to  Miss  James  \wbo  was  Mary 
Lamb's  regular  nurse\. 

Yours  truly,  Ch.  Lamb 

Monday.  Pray,  send  me  the  Table  Book.  I  will 
send  your  books  soon. 

DXXXVIII.— TO    HENRY   C.  ROBINSON 

October  i,  1827. 

Dear  R.,  —  I  am  settled  for  life  I  hope,  at 
Enfield.  I  have  taken  the  prettiest,  compactest 
house  I  ever  saw,  near  to  Antony  Robinson's,  but 
alas  !  at  the  expence  of  poor  Mary,  who  was  taken 
ill  of  her  old  complaint  the  night  before  we  got 
into  it.  So  I  must  suspend  the  pleasure  I  expected 
in  the  surprise  you  would  have  had  in  coming 
down  and  finding  us  householders. 

Farewell,  till  we  can  all  meet  comfortable. 
Pray,  apprise  Martin  Burney.  Him  I  longed  to 
have  seen  with  you,  but  our  house  is  too  small 
to  meet  either  of  you  without  her  knowledge. 

God  bless  you.  C.  Lamb 

96 


DXXXIX.  — TO  JOHN   BATES  DIBDIN 

October  2,  1827. 

My  dear  Dibdin,  —  It  gives  me  great  pain  to 
have  to  say  that  I  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  for  some  time.  We  are  in  our  house, 
but  Mary  has  been  seized  with  one  of  her  peri- 
odical disorders  —  a  temporary  derangement  — 
which  commonly  lasts  for  two  months.  You 
shall  have  the  first  notice  of  her  convalescence. 
Can  you  not  send  your  manuscript  by  the  coach  ? 
directed  to  Chase  Side,  next  to  Mr.  Westwood's 
Insurance  Office.  I  will  take  great  care  of  it. 
Yours  most  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DXL.  — TO    BARRON    FIELD 

October  4,  1827. 

I  am  not  in  humour  to  return  a  fit  reply  to 
your  pleasant  letter.  We  are  fairly  housed  at 
Enfield,  and  an  angel  shall  not  persuade  me  to 
wicked  London  again.  We  have  now  six  sabbath- 
days  in  a  week  for  —  none !  The  change  has 
worked  on  my  sister's  mind,  to  make  her  ill ;  and 
I  must  wait  a  tedious  time  before  we  can  hope  to 
enjoy  this  place  in  unison.  Enjoy  it,  when  she 
recovers,  I  know  we  shall.  I  see  no  shadow,  but 
in  her  illness,  for  repenting  the  step  ! 

For  Mathews —  I  know  my  own  utter  unfitness 
for  such  a  task.  I  am  no  hand  at  describing  cos- 
tumes, a  great  requisite  in  an  account  of  man- 

97 


nered  pictures.  I  have  not  the  slightest  acquaint- 
ance with  pictorial  language  even.  An  imitator 
of  me,  or  rather  pretender  to  be  me,  in  his  Re- 
jected Articles,  has  made  me  minutely  describe 
the  dresses  of  the  poissardes  at  Calais  !  —  I  could 
as  soon  resolve  Euclid.  I  have  no  eye  for  forms 
and  fashions.  I  substitute  analysis,  and  get  rid 
of  the  phenomenon  by  slurring  in  for  it  its  im- 
pression. I  am  sure  you  must  have  observed 
this  defect,  or  peculiarity,  in  my  writings ;  else 
the  delight  would  be  incalculable  in  doing  such 
a  thing  for  Mathews,  whom  I  greatly  like  — and 
Mrs.  Mathews,  whom  I  almost  greatlier  like. 
What  a  feast 't  would  be  to  be  sitting  at  the  pic- 
tures painting  'em  into  words;  but  I  could  al- 
most as  soon  make  words  into  pictures.  I  speak 
this  deliberately,  and  not  out  of  modesty.  I  pretty 
well  know  what  I  can't  do. 

My  sister's  verses  are  homely,  but  just  what 
they  should  be  ;  I  send  them,  not  for  the  poetry, 
but  the  good  sense  and  good  will  of  them.  I  was 
beginning  to  transcribe  ;  but  Emma  is  sadly  jeal- 
ous of  its  getting  into  more  hands,  and  I  won't 
spoil  it  in  her  eyes  by  divulging  it.  Come  to 
Enfield,  and  read  it.  As  my  poor  cousin,  the  book- 
binder, now  with  God,  told  me,  most  sentiment- 
ally, that  having  purchased  a  picture  of  fish  at 
a  dead  man's  sale,  his  heart  ached  to  see  how  the 
widow  grieved  to  part  with  it,  being  her  dear 
husband's  favourite ;  and  he  almost  apologised 
for  his  generosity  by  saying  he  could  not  help 

98 


telling  the  widow  she  was  "welcome  to  come 
and  look  at  it"  — e.  g.  at  his  house  —  "as  often 
as  she  pleased."  There  was  the  germ  of  gener- 
osity in  an  uneducated  mind.  He  had  just  reading 
enough  from  the  backs  of  books  for  the  "  nee 
sink  esse  feros  "  —  had  he  read  inside,  the  same 
impulse  would  have  led  him  to  give  back  the 
two-guinea  thing  —  with  a  request  to  see  it,  now 
and  then,  at  her  house.  We  are  parroted  into 
delicacy.  Thus  you  have  a  tale  for  a  sonnet. 
Adieu!  with  (imagine  both)  our  loves. 

C.  Lamb 

DXLI.  — TO    H.    DODWELL 

October  7,  1827. 

Let  us  meet  if  possible  when  you  hobble  to 
town.  Enfield  Chase,  nearly  opposite  to  the  first 
chapel ;  or  better  to  define  it,  east  side  opposite 
a  white  house  in  which  a  Mrs.  Vaughan  (in  ill 
health)  still  resides. 

My  dear  Dodwell,  —  Your  little  pig  found 
his  way  to  Enfield  this  morning  without  his 
feet,  or  rather  his  little  feet  came  first,  and  as 
I  guessed  the  rest  of  him  soon  followed.  He 
is  quite  a  beauty.  It  was  a  pity  to  kill  him, 
or  rather,  as  Rice  would  say,  it  would  have  been 
a  pity  not  to  kill  him  in  his  state  of  innocence. 
He  might  have  lived  to  be  corrupted  by  the 
ways    of   the   world,   and   for    all   his    delicate 

99 


promise  have  turned  out,  like  an  old  tea  broker 
you  and  I  remember,  a  lump  of  fat  rusty  Bacon. 
Bacon  was  a  beast,  my  friend  at  Calne,  Marsh, 
used  to  say  —  or  was  it  Bendry  ?  A  rasher  of  the 
latter  still  hangs  up  in  Leadenhall.  Your  kind 
letter  has  left  a  relish  upon  my  taste ;  it  read 
warm  and  short  as  to-morrow's  crackling. 

I  am  not  quite  so  comfortable  at  home  yet  as 
I  should  be  else  in  the  neatest,  compactest  house 
I  ever  got  —  a  perfect  God-send ;  but  for  some 
weeks  I  must  enjoy  it  alone.  She  always  comes 
round  again.  It  is  a  house  of  a  few  years'  stand- 
ing, built  (for  its  size  with  every  convenience) 
by  an  old  humourist  for  himself,  which  he  tired 
of  as  soon  as  he  got  warm  in  it.  Grates,  locks, 
a  pump,  convenience  indescribable,  and  cheap  as 
if  it  had  been  old  and  craved  repairs.  For  me, 
who  always  take  the  first  thing  that  offers,  how 
lucky  that  the  best  should  first  offer  itself!  My 
books,  my  prints  are  up,  and  I  seem  (so  like  this 
room  I  write  in  is  to  a  room  there)  to  have 
come  here  transported  in  the  night,  like  Gul- 
liver in  his  flying  house ;  and  to  add  to  the 
deception,  the  New  River  has  come  down  from 
Islington  with  me.  'Twas  what  I  wished  —  to 
move  my  house,  and  I  have  realised  it.  Only  in- 
stead of  company  seven  nights  in  the  week,  I  see 
my  friends  on  the  first  day  of  it,  and  enjoy  six 
real  Sabbaths.  The  Museum  is  a  loss,  but  I  am 
not  so  far  but  I  can  visit  it  occasionally;  and 
I  have  exhausted  the  plays  there. 

ioo 


"  Indisputably  I  shall  allow  no  sage  and  onion 
to  be  cramm'd  into  the  throat  of  so  tender 
a  suckling. 

"  Bread  and  milk  with  some  odoriferous  mint, 
and  the  liveret  minced. 

"  Come  and  tell  me  when  he  cries,  that  I 
may  catch  his  little  eyes. 

"  And  do  it  nice  and  crips."  (That 's  the 
cook's  word.)  You  '11  excuse  me,  I  have  been 
only  speaking  to  Becky  about  the  dinner  to- 
morrow. After  it,  a  glass  of  seldom-drunk  wine 
to  my  friend  Dodwell,  and,  if  he  will  give 
a  stranger  leave,  to  Mrs.  Dodwell:  then  to  the 
memory  of  the  last,  and  of  the  last  but  one, 
learned  Dodwell,  of  whom,  but  not  whom,  I  have 
read  so  much.  The  next  to  the  "  Outward  and 
Homeward  bound  ships  " —  and,  if  the  bottle 
lasts,  to  the  Chairman,  Deputy-Chairman,  the 
Court  of  Directors,  the  Secretary,  the  Treasurer, 
and  Accomptant-General,  of  the  East  India 
Company,  with  a  blunt  bumper  at  parting  to 

P .    All  I  can  do,  I  cannot  make  P 

look  like  a  G n,  yet  he  is  portly,  majestic, 

hath  his  nods,  his  condescensions,  his  variety  of 
behaviour  to  suit  your  Director,  your  Upper 
Clerk,  your  Ryles,  and  your  Winfields ;  he 
tempers  mirth  with  gravity,  gives  no  affront,  and 
expects  to  receive  none,  is  honourable,  man- 
nered, of  good  bearing,  looks  like  a  man  who, 
accustomed  to  respect  others,  silently  extorts 
respect  from  them,  has  it  as  a  sort  of  in  course ; 

IOI 


without  claiming  it,  finds  it.  What  do  I  miss  in 
him,  then,  of  the  essentials  of  gentlemanhood  ? 
He  is  right  sterling  —  but  then,  somehow,  he 

always  has  that  d d  large  Goldsmith's  Hall 

mark  staring  upon  him.  Possibly  he  is  too  fat 
for  a  gentleman  —  then  I  think  of  Charles  Fox 
in  the  Dropsy ;  and  the  burly  old  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, a  nobleman,  every  stun  of  him  ! 

I    am    afraid   now    you    and are    gone, 

there 's  scarce  an  officer  in  the  Civil  Service 
quite  comes  up  to  my  notion  of  a  gentleman. 
D certainly  does  not,  nor  his  friend  B . 

C bobs.    K curtsies.    W bows 

like  the  son  of  a  citizen  ;   F like  a  village 

apothecary ;    C like   the   Squire's  younger 

Brother ;   R like  a  crocodile  on  his  hind 

legs ;  H never  bows  at  all  —  at  least  to  me. 

S spulters  and  stutters.    W halters  and 

smatters.    R is  a  coal-heaver.    Wolf  wants 

my  clothing.    C simmers,  but   never  boils 

over.  D is  a  butterfirkin,  salt  butter.  C , 

a  pepper-box,   cayenne.     For    A ,    E , 

and  O ,  I  can  answer  that  they  have  not  the 

slightest  pretensions  to  anything  but  rusticity. 
Marry,  the  remaining  vowels  had  something  of 
civility  about  them.  Can  you  make  top  or  tail 
of  this  nonsense,  or  tell  where  it  begins  ?  I  will 
page  it.  How  an  error  in  the  outset  infects  to 
the  end  of  life,  or  of  a  sheet  of  paper  ! 

Cordially  adieu.  C.  Lamb 


102 


DXLII.  — TO  WILLIAM   HONE 

October,  1827. 

Dear  H., —  May  I  trouble  your  kindness  (a 
pretty  phrase  and  new)  to  transmit  for  me  the 
accompanying  farce  (which  I  leave  open  for 
your  amusement)  to  Terry,  with  the  enclosed,  at 
the  Adelphi;  or  his  own  house,  if  it  can  be 
there  learned,  and  is  not  far  distant,  still  better. 
I  have  no  messenger,  and  am  crippled  for  going 
so  far.  The  letter  must  go  with  it.  I  return, 
with  the  farce,  three  books.  Pick  out  the  cob- 
bler. Yours,  "every  day,"  C.  L. 

DXLIII.— TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

October,  1827. 

Dear  Hone,  —  Having  occasion  to  write  to 
Clarke  I  put  in  a  bit  to  you.  I  see  no  Extracts 
in  this  Number.  You  should  have  three  sets  in 
hand,  one  long  one  in  particular  from  Atreus  and 
Thyestes,  terribly  fine.  Don't  spare  'em ;  with 
fragments,  divided  as  you  please,  they  '11  hold 
out  to  Xmas.  What  I  have  to  say  is  enjoined  me 
most  seriously  to  say  to  you  by  Moxon.  Their 
country  customers  grieve  at  getting  the  Table 
Book  so  late.  It  is  indispensable  it  should  appear 
on  Friday.  Do  it  but  once,  and  you  '11  never 
know  the  difference. 

FABLE 

A  boy  at  my  school,  a  cunning  fox,  for  one 
103 


penny  ensured  himself  a  hot  roll  and  butter  every 
morning  for  ever.  Some  favour'd  ones  were 
allowed  a  roll  and  butter  to  their  breakfasts. 
He  had  none.  But  he  bought  one  one  morn- 
ing. What  did  he  do?  He  did  not  eat  it,  but 
cutting  it  in  two,  sold  each  one  of  the  halves  to 
a  half-breakfasted  Blue  Boy  for  his  whole  roll 
to-morrow.  The  next  day  he  had  a  whole  roll 
to  eat,  and  two  halves  to  swap  with  other  two 
boys,  who  had  eat  their  cake  and  were  still 
not  satiated,  for  whole  ones  to-morrow.  So  on 
ad  infinitum.  By  one  morning's  abstinence  he 
feasted  seven  years  after. 

APPLICATION 

Bring  out  the  next  Number  on  Friday,  for 
country  correspondents'  sake.  It  will  be  one  piece 
of  exertion,  and  you  will  go  right  ever  after,  for 
you  will  have  just  the  time  you  had  before,  to 
bring  it  out  ever  after  by  the  Friday. 

You  don't  know  the  difference  in  getting  a 
thing  early.  Your  correspondents  are  your  au- 
thors. You  don't  know  how  an  author  frets  to 
know  the  world  has  got  his  contribution,  when 
he  finds  it  not  on  his  breakfast  table. 

Once  in  this  case  is  ever  without  a  grain  of 
trouble  afterwards. 

I  won't  like  you  or  speak  to  you  if  you  don't 
try  it  once. 

Yours,  on  that  condition, 

C.  Lamb 
104 


DXLIV.— TO   WILLIAM   HONE 

October,  1827. 

Dear  Hone,  —  I  was  most  sensibly  gratified 
by  receiving  the  Table  Book  on  Friday  evening 
at  Enfield ! 

Thank  you.  In  haste.  Don't  spare  the  Ex- 
tracts. They'll  eke  out  till  Christmas.  How  is 
your  daughter  ?  C.  L. 

DXLV.  — TO  THOMAS  HOOD 

1827. 

Dear  H.,  —  Emma  has  a  favour,  besides  a  bed, 
to  ask  of  Mrs.  Hood.  Your  parcel  was  gratify- 
ing. We  have  all  been  pleased  with  Mrs.  Leslie ; 
I  speak  it  most  sincerely.  There  is  much  manly 
sense  with  a  feminine  expression,  which  is  my 
definition  of  ladies'  writing. 

DXLVL  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

Late,  1827. 

My  dear  B.  B.,  —  You  will  understand  my 
silence  when  I  tell  you  that  my  sister,  on  the 
very  eve  of  entering  into  a  new  house  we  have 
taken  at  Enfield,  was  surprised  with  an  attack  of 
one  of  her  sad  long  illnesses,  which  deprive  me 
of  her  society,  tho'  not  of  her  domestication,  for 
eight  or  nine  weeks  together.  I  see  her,  but  it 
does  her  no  good.   But  for  this,  we  have  the  snug- 

i°5 


gest,  most  comfortable  house,  with  everything 
most  compact  and  desirable.  Colebrook  is  a  wil- 
derness. The  books,  prints,  &c,  are  come  here, 
and  the  New  River  came  down  with  us.  The 
familiar  prints,  the  Bust,  the  Milton,  seem  scarce 
to  have  changed  their  rooms.  One  of  her  last 
observations  was  "  how  frightfully  like  this  room 
is  to  our  room  in  Islington  "  —  our  up-stairs  room, 
she  meant.  How  I  hope  you  will  come  some 
better  day,  and  judge  of  it !  We  have  tried  quiet 
here  for  four  months,  and  I  will  answer  for  the 
comfort  of  it  enduring. 

On  emptying  my  bookshelves  I  found  an  Ulysses, 
which  I  will  send  to  A.  K.  when  I  go  to  town, 
for  her  acceptance  —  unless  the  book  be  out  of 
print.  One  likes  to  have  one  copy  of  everything 
one  does.  I  neglected  to  keep  one  of  Poetry  for 
Children,  the  joint  production  of  Mary  and  me, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  It  had 
in  the  title-page  "  by  the  author  of  Mrs.  Lester's 
School."  Know  you  any  one  that  has  it,  and 
would  exchange  it  ? 

Strolling  to  Waltham  Cross  the  other  day,  I 
hit  off  these  lines.  It  is  one  of  the  crosses  which 
Edward  I.  caused  to  be  built  for  his  wife  at  every 
town  where  her  corpse  rested  between  North- 
amptonshire and  London. 

A  stately  cross  each  sad  spot  doth  attest, 
Whereat  the  corpse  of  Elinor  did  rest, 
From  Herdby  fetch'd — her  spouse  so  honour'd  her  — 
To  sleep  with  royal  dust  at  Westminster. 
1 06 


And,  if  less  pompous  obsequies  were  thine, 
Duke  Brunswick's  daughter,  princely  Caroline, 
Grudge  not,  great  ghost,  nor  count  thy  funeral  losses : 
Thou  in  thy  lifetime  hadst  thy  share  of  crosses. 

My  dear  B.  B., —  My  head  akes  with  this 
little  excursion.  Pray  accept  two  sides  for  three 
for  once.  And  believe  me,  yours  sadly, 

C.  L. 

DXLVII.  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

December  4,  1827. 

My  dear  B.  B.,  —  I  have  scarce  spirits  to  write, 
yet  am  harass'd  with  not  writing.  Nine  weeks 
are  completed,  and  Mary  does  not  get  any  better. 
It  is  perfectly  exhausting.  Enfield  and  everything 
is  very  gloomy.  But  for  long  experience,  I  should 
fear  her  ever  getting  well. 

I  feel  most  thankful  for  the  spinsterly  atten- 
tions of  your  sister.  Thank  the  kind  "  knitter  in 
the  sun." 

What  nonsense  seems  verse,  when  one  is  seri- 
ously out  of  hope  and  spirits !  I  mean  that  at 
this  time  I  have  some  nonsense  to  write,  pain  of 
incivility.  Would  to  the  fifth  heaven  no  cox- 
combess  had  invented  albums. 

I  have  not  had  a  Bijoux,  nor  the  slightest  no- 
tice from  Pickering  about  omitting  four  out  of 
five  of  my  things.  The  best  thing  is  never  to  hear 
of  such  a  thing  as  a  bookseller  again,  or  to  think 
there  are  publishers :  second  hand  stationers  and 

107 


old  book-stalls  for  me.    Authorship  should  be  an 
idea  of  the  past. 

Old  kings,  old  bishops,  are  venerable.  All 
present  is  hollow. 

I  cannot  make  a  letter.  I  have  no  straw,  not 
a  pennyworth  of  chaff,  only  this  may  stop  your 
kind  importunity  to  know  about  us. 

Here  is  a  comfortable  house,  but  no  tenants. 
One  does  not  make  a  household. 

Do  not  think  I  am  quite  in  despair,  but  in 
addition  to  hope  protracted,  I  have  a  stupifying 
cold  and  obstructing  headache,  and  the  sun  is 
dead. 

I  will  not  fail  to  apprise  you  of  the  revival 
of  a  beam. 

Meantime  accept  this,  rather  than  think  I  have 
forgotten  you  all. 

Best  remembrances. 

Yours  and  theirs  truly,  C.  L. 

DXLVIII.  — TO    LEIGH    HUNT 

December,  1827. 

Dear  H.,  —  I  am  here  almost  in  the  eleventh 
week  of  the  longest  illness  my  sister  ever  had, 
and  no  symptoms  of  amendment.  Some  had 
begun,  but  relapsed  with  a  change  of  nurse.  If 
she  ever  gets  well,  you  will  like  my  house,  and 
I  shall  be  happy  to  show  you  Enfield  country. 

As  to  my  head,  it  is  perfectly  at  your  or 
any  one's  service ;    either  Meyers'  or  Hazlitt's 

108 


[portrait],  which  last  (done  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  since)  White,  of  the  Accountant's  office, 
India  House,  has ;  he  lives  in  Kentish  Town : 
I  forget  where,  but  is  to  be  found  in  Leadenhall 
daily.  Take  your  choice.  I  should  be  proud 
to  hang  up  as  an  alehouse-sign  even  ;  or,  rather, 
I  care  not  about  my  head  or  anything,  but  how 
we  are  to  get  well  again,  for  I  am  tired  out. 

God  bless  vou  and  yours  from  the  worst  ca- 
lamity. Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

Kindest  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Hunt.  H.'s 
is  in  a  queer  dress.  M.'s  would  be  preferable 
ad  populum. 

DXLIX.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

December  15,  1827. 

My  dear  Hone,  —  I  read  the  sad  accident  with 
a  careless  eye,  the  newspaper  giving  a  wrong  name 
to  the  poor  sufferer ;  but  learn' d  the  truth  from 
Clarke.  God  send  him  ease,  and  you  comfort  in 
your  thick  misfortunes.  I  am  in  a  sorry  state. 
'T  is  the  eleventh  week  of  the  illness,  and  I  can- 
not get  her  well.  To  add  to  the  calamity,  Miss 
James  is  obliged  to  leave  us  in  a  day  or  two. 
We  had  an  Enfield  nurse  for  seven  weeks,  and 
just  as  she  seem'd  mending,  she  was  call'd  away. 
Miss  J.'s  coming  seem'd  to  put  her  back,  and 
now  she  is  going.  I  do  not  compare  my  suffer- 
ings to  yours,  but  you  see  the  world  is  full  of 

109 


troubles.  I  wish  I  could  say  a  word  to  comfort 
you.  You  must  cling  to  all  that  is  left.  I  fear  to 
ask  you  whether  the  Book  is  to  be  discontinued. 
What  a  pity,  when  it  must  have  delighted  so 
many  !  Let  me  hear  about  you  and  it,  and  be- 
lieve me  with  deepest  fellow-feeling, 

Your  friend,  C.  Lamb 

DL.  —  TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

Middle  December,  1827. 

My  dear  Allsop,  —  Thanks  for  the  birds. 
Your  announcement  puzzles  me  sadly,  as  no- 
thing came.  I  send  you  back  a  word  in  your  letter, 
which  I  can  positively  make  nothing  of  and 
therefore  return  to  you  as  useless.  It  means  to 
refer  to  the  birds,  but  gives  me  no  information. 
They  are  at  the  fire,  however. 

My  sister's  illness  is  the  most  obstinate  she 
ever  had.  It  will  not  go  away,  and  I  am  afraid 
Miss  James  will  not  be  able  to  stay  above  a  day 
or  two  longer.  I  am  desperate  to  think  of  it 
sometimes.  'T  is  eleven  weeks  !  The  day  is  sad 
as  my  prospects.  With  kindest  love  to  Mrs.  A. 
and  the  children,  yours,  C.  L. 

No  Atlas  this  week.  Poor  Hone's  good  boy 
Alfred  has  fractured  his  skull,  another  son  is 
returned  "  dead "  from  the  Navy  Office,  and 
his  Book  is  going  to  be  given  up,  not  having 
answered.    What  a  world  of  troubles  this  is  ! 

1 10 


DLL  — TO  THOMAS  ALLSOP 

December  20,  1827. 

My  dear  Allsop,  —  I  have  writ  to  say  to  you 
that  I  hope  to  have  a  comfortable  Xm  as-day 
with  Mary,  and  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  go  from 
home  at  present.  Your  kind  offer,  and  the  kind 
consent  of  the  young  lady  to  come,  we  feel  as 
we  should  do  ;  pray  accept  all  of  you  our  kindest 
thanks :  at  present  I  think  a  visitor  (good  and 
excellent  as  we  remember  her  to  be)  might  a 
little  put  us  out  of  our  way.  Emma  is  with  us, 
and  our  small  house  just  holds  us,  without 
obliging  Mary  to  sleep  with  Becky,  &c. 

We  are  going  on  extremely  comfortably,  and 
shall  soon  be  in  capacity  of  seeing  our  friends. 
Much  weakness  is  left  still.  With  thanks  and 
old  remembrances,  yours,  C.  L. 

DLIL  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

December  22,  1827. 

My  dear  Moxon,  —  I  am  at  length  able  to 
tell  you  that  we  are  all  doing  well,  and  shall  be 
able  soon  to  see  our  friends  as  usual.  If  you  will 
venture  a  winter  walk  to  Enfield  to-morrow  week 
(Sunday  30th)  you  will  find  us  much  as  usual ; 
we  intend  a  delicious  quiet  Christmas  day,  dull 
and  friendless,  for  we  have  not  spirits  for  festiv- 
ities. Pray  communicate  the  good  news  to  the 
Hoods,  and  say  I  hope  he  is  better.    I  should 

in 


be  thankful  for  any  of  the  books  you  mention, 
but  I  am  so  apprehensive  of  their  miscarriage  by 
the  stage,  —  at  all  events  I  want  none  just  now. 

Pray  call  and  see  Mrs.  Lovekin,  I  heard  she 
was  ill ;  say  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  them  some 
fine  day  after  a  week  or  so. 

May  I  beg  you  to  call  upon  Miss  James,  and 
say  that  we  are  quite  well,  and  that  Mary  hopes 
she  will  excuse  her  writing  herself  yet ;  she 
knows  that  it  is  rather  troublesome  to  her  to 
write.  We  have  received  her  letter.  Farewell, 
till  we  meet.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DLIII.  — TO   BERNARD  BARTON 

End  of  1827. 

My  dear  B.,  —  We  are  all  pretty  well  again 
and  comfortable,  and  I  take  a  first  opportunity 
of  sending  the  Adventures  of  Ulysses,  hoping  that 
among  us  —  Homer,  Chapman,  and  Co.  —  we 
shall  afford  you  some  pleasure.  I  fear  it  is  out  of 
print,  if  not  A.  K.  will  accept  it,  with  wishes  it 
were  bigger ;  if  another  copy  is  not  to  be  had, 
it  reverts  to  me  and  my  heirs  for  ever.  With  it 
I  send  a  trumpery  book ;  to  which,  without  my 
knowledge,  the  editor  of  the  Bijoux  has  contrib- 
uted Lucy's  verses :  I  am  asham'd  to  ask  her 
acceptance  of  the  trash  accompanying  it.  Adieu 
to  albums  —  for  a  great  while,  I  said  when  I 
came  here,  and  had  not  been  fixed  two  days  but 
my  landlord's   daughter   (not  at  the  pothouse) 

1 12 


requested  me  to  write  in  her  female  friend's  and 

in  her  own  ;  if  I  go  to ,  thou  art  there  also, 

O  all  pervading  album!  All  over  the  Leeward 
Islands,  in  Newfoundland,  and  the  Back  Settle- 
ments, I  understand  there  is  no  other  reading. 
They  haunt  me.    I  die  of  Albo-phobia  ! 

DLIV.  — TO    THOMAS   ALLSOP 

January  9,  1828. 

Dear  Allsop, —  I  have  been  very  poorly  and 
nervous  lately,  but  am  recovering  sleep,  &c.  I  do 
not  invite  or  make  engagements  for  particular 
days  ;  but  I  need  not  say  how  pleasant  your  drop- 
ping in  any  Sunday  morning  would  be.  Perhaps 
Jameson  would  accompany  you.  Pray  beg  him 
to  keep  an  accurate  record  of  the  warning  I  sent 
by  him  to  old  Pan,  for  I  dread  lest  he  should  at 
the  twelve  months'  end  deny  the  warning.  The 
house  is  his  daughter's,  but  we  took  it  through 
him,  and  have  paid  the  rent  to  his  receipts  for 
his  daughter's.  Consult  J.  if  he  thinks  the  warn- 
ing sufficient.  I  am  very  nervous,  or  have  been, 
about  the  house ;  lost  my  sleep,  and  expected  to 
be  ill ;  but  slumbered  gloriously  last  night,  golden 
slumbers.  I  shall  not  relapse.  You  fright  me 
with  your  inserted  slips  in  the  most  welcome 
Atlas.  They  begin  to  charge  double  for  it,  and 
call  it  two  sheets.  How  can  I  confute  them 
by  opening  it,  when  a  note  of  yours  might  slip 
out,  and  we  get  in  a  hobble  ?   When  you  write, 

"■3 


write  real  letters.    Mary's  best  love  and   mine 
to  Mrs.  A.  Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb 

DLV.  — TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

January,  1828. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  I  have  to  thank  you  for  de- 
spatching so  much  business  for  me.  I  am  uneasy 
respecting  the  enclosed  receipts  which  you  sent 
me  and  are  dated  January,  1 827.  Pray  get  them 
chang'd  by  Mr.  Henshall  to  1828.  I  have  been 
in  a  very  nervous  way  since  I  saw  you.  Pray 
excuse  me  to  the  Hoods  for  not  answering  his 
very  pleasant  letter.  I  am  very  poorly.  The 
Keepsake  I  hope  is  return'd.  I  sent  it  back  by 
Mrs.  Hazlitt  on  Thursday.  'T  was  blotted  out- 
side when  it  came.    The  rest  I  think  are  mine. 

My  heart  bleeds  about  poor  Hone,  that  such 
an  agreeable  book,  and  a  Book  there  seem'd  no 
reason  should  not  go  on  for  ever,  should  be  given 
up,  and  a  thing  substituted  which  in  its  nature 
cannot  last.  Don't  send  me  any  more  Companions, 
for  it  only  vexes  me  about  the  Table  Book.  This 
is  not  weather  to  hope  to  see  anybody  to-day, 
but,  without  any  particular  invitations,  pray  con- 
sider that  we  are  at  any  time  most  glad  to  see 
you.  You  (with  Hunt's  Lord  Byron  or  Hazlitt's 
Napoleon  in  your  hand)  or  you  simply  with  your 
switch,  &c.  The  night  was  damnable  and  the 
morning  is  not  too  bless-able.  If  you  get  my 
dates  changed,  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  busi- 

114 


ness  for  some  time.  Best  of  all  remembrances  to 
the  Hoods,  with  a  malicious  congratulation  on 
their  friend  Rice's  advancement. 

Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DLVI.  —  TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

February  18,  1828. 

Dear  M.,  —  I  had  rather  thought  to  have  seen 
you  yesterday,  or  I  should  have  written  to  thank 
you  for  your  attentions  in  the  book  way,  &c. 
Hone's  address  is  22  Belvidere  Place,  Southwark. 
'T  is  near  the  obelisk.  I  can  only  say  we  shall 
be  most  glad  to  see  you,  when  weather  suits,  and 
that  it  will  be  a  joyful  surprisal  to  see  the  Hoods. 
I  should  write  to  them,  but  am  poorly  and  nervous. 
Emma  is  very  proud  of  her  Valentine.  Mary  does 
not  immediately  want  books,  having  a  damn'd 
consignment  of  novels  in  MS.  from  Malta;  which 
I  wish  the  Mediterranean  had  in  its  guts. 

Believe  me,  yours  truly,  C.  L. 

DLVII.  — TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE 

February  25,  1828. 

My  dear  Clarke,  —  You  have  been  accumu- 
lating on  me  such  a  heap  of  pleasant  obligations 
that  I  feel  uneasy  in  writing  as  to  a  benefactor. 
Your  smaller  contributions,  the  little  weekly  rills, 
are  refreshments  in  the  desart,  but  your  large 
books  were  feasts.    I  hope  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  to  whom 

"5 


I  encharged  it,  has  taken  Hunt's  Lord  B.  to  the 
Novellos.  His  picture  of  Literary  Lordship  is 
as  pleasant  as  a  disagreeable  subject  can  be  made, 
his  own  poor  man's  Education  at  dear  Christ's 
is  as  good  and  hearty  as  the  subject.  Hazlitt's 
speculative  episodes  are  capital ;  I  skip  the  Bat- 
tles.   But  how  did  I  deserve  to  have  the  Book  ? 

The  Companion  has  too  much  of  Madam  Pasta. 
Theatricals  have  ceased  to  be  popular  attractions. 
His  walk  home  after  the  Play  is  as  good  as  the 
best  of  the  old  Indicators.  The  watchmen  are 
emboxed  in  a  niche  of  fame,  save  the  skaiting 
one  that  must  be  still  fugitive.  I  wish  I  could 
send  a  scrap  for  good  will.  But  I  have  been 
most  seriously  unwell  and  nervous  a  long  long 
time.  I  have  scarce  mustered  courage  to  begin 
this  short  note,  but  conscience  duns  me. 

I  had  a  pleasant  letter  from  your  sister,  greatly 
over-acknowledging  my  poor  sonnet.  I  think 
I  should  have  replied  to  it,  but  tell  her  I  think 
so.  Alas  for  sonnetting,  't  is  as  the  nerves  are  ;  all 
the  summer  I  was  dawdling  among  green  lanes, 
and  verses  came  as  thick  as  fancies.  I  am  sunk 
winterly  below  prose  and  zero. 

But  I  trust  the  vital  principle  is  only  as  under 
snow.    That  I  shall  yet  laugh  again. 

I  suppose  the  great  change  of  place  affects  me, 
but  I  could  not  have  lived  in  town,  I  could  not 
bear  company. 

I  see  Novello  flourishes  in  the  Del  Capo  line, 
and  dedications  are  not  forgotten.    I   read  the 

116 


Atlas.  When  I  pitched  on  the  Dedication  I 
looked  for  the  Broom  of  "  Cowden  knows  "  to 
be  harmonized,  but 't  was  summat  of  Rossini's. 

I  want  to  hear  about  Hone :  does  he  stand 
above  water?  how  is  his  son?  I  have  delay'd 
writing  to  him,  till  it  seems  impossible.  Break 
the  ice  for  me. 

The  wet  ground  here  is  intolerable,  the  sky 
above  clear  and  delusive,  but  underfoot  quag- 
mires from  night  showers,  and  I  am  cold-footed 
and  moisture-abhorring  as  a  cat;  nevertheless  I 
yesterday  tramped  to  Waltham  Cross ;  perhaps 
the  poor  bit  of  exertion  necessary  to  scribble 
this  was  owing  to  that  unusual  bracing. 

If  I  get  out,  I  shall  get  stout,  and  then  some- 
thing will  out  —  I  mean  for  the  Companion  — 
you  see  I  rhyme  insensibly. 

Traditions  are  rife  here  of  one  Clarke  a  school- 
master, and  a  runaway  pickle  named  Holmes, 
but  much  obscurity  hangs  over  it.  Is  it  possible 
they  can  be  any  relations  ? 

'T  is  worth  the  research,  when  you  can  find  a 
sunny  day,  with  ground  firm,  &c.  Master  Sexton 
is  intelligent,  and  for  half-a-crown  he  '11  pick 
you  up  a  father. 

In  truth  we  shall  be  most  glad  to  see  any  of 
the  Novellian  circle,  middle  of  the  week  such 
as  can  come,  or  Sunday,  as  can't.  But  spring  will 
burgeon  out  quickly,  and  then  we  '11  talk  more. 

You  'd  like  to  see  the  improvements  on  the 
Chase,  the  new  Cross  in  the  market-place,  the 

117 


chandler's  shop  from  whence  the  rods  were 
fetch'd.  They  are  raised  a  farthing  since  the 
spread  of  education.  But  perhaps  you  don't  care 
to  be  reminded  of  the  Holofernes'  days,  and 
nothing  remains  of  the  old  laudable  profession, 
but  the  clear,  firm,  impossible-to-be-mistaken 
schoolmaster  text  hand  with  which  is  subscribed 
the  ever-welcome  name  of  Chas.  Cowden  C. 
Let  me  crowd  in  both  our  loves  to  all.     C.  L. 

Let  me  never  be  forgotten  to  include  in  my 
remembrances  my  good  friend  and  whilom  cor- 
respondent Master  Stephen. 

How,  especially,  is  Victoria  ? 

I  try  to  remember  all  I  used  to  meet  at  Shack- 
lewell.  The  little  household,  cake-producing, 
wine-bringing-out  Emma  —  the  old  servant,  that 
didn't  stay,  and  ought  to  have  staid,  and  was 
always  very  dirty  and  friendly,  and  Miss  H.,  the 
counter-tenor  with  a  fine  voice,  whose  sister 
married  Thurtell.  They  all  live  in  my  mind's 
eye,  and  Mr.  N.'s  and  Holmes's  walks  with  us 
halfback  after  supper.    Troiafuit! 

DLVIII.  — TO   CHARLES   C.   CLARKE 

Dear  C,  —  I  shall  do  very  well.  The  sunshine 
is  medicinal,  as  you  will  find  when  you  venture 
hither  some  fine  day.    Enfield  is  beautiful. 

Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

118 


DLIX.  — TO   HENRY  CRABB    ROBINSON 

February  26,  1828. 

My  dear  Robinson,  —  It  will  be  a  very  painful 
thing  to  us  indeed,  if  you  give  up  coming  to  see 
us,  as  we  fear,  on  account  of  the  nearness  of  the 
poor  lady  you  inquire  after.  It  is  true  that  on 
the  occasion  she  mentions,  which  was  on  her  re- 
turn from  last  seeing  her  daughter,  she  was  very 
heated  and  feverish,  but  there  seems  to  be  a  great 
amendment  in  her  since,  and  she  has  within  a  day 
or  two  passed  a  quiet  evening  with  us.  At  the 
same  time  I  dare  not  advise  anything  one  way  or 
another  respecting  her  daughter  coming  to  live 
with  her.  I  entirely  disclaim  the  least  opinion 
about  it.  If  we  named  anything  before  her,  it 
was  erroneously,  on  the  notion  that  she  was  the 
obstacle  to  the  plan  which  had  been  suggested  of 
placing  her  daughter  in  a  private  family,  which 
seem' d  your  wish.  But  I  have  quite  done  with  the 
subject.  If  we  can  be  of  any  amusement  to  the 
poor  lady,  without  self  disturbance,  we  will.  But 
come  and  see  us  after  Circuit,  as  if  she  were  not. 
You  have  no  more  affectionate  friends  than 

C.  and  M.  Lamb 

DLX.  —  TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

March  19,  1828. 

My  dear  M., —  It  is  my  firm  determination  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  Forget-me-Nots  —  pray 

119 


excuse  me  as  civilly  as  you  can  to  Mr.  Hurst. 
I  will  take  care  to  refuse  any  other  applications. 
The  things  which  Pickering  has,  if  to  be  had 
again,  I  have  promised  absolutely,  you  know,  to 
poor  Hood,  from  whom  I  had  a  melancholy  epis- 
tle yesterday ;  besides  that,  Emma  has  decided  ob- 
jections to  her  own  and  her  friend's  album  verses 
being  published ;  but  if  she  gets  over  that,  they 
are  decidedly  Hood's. 

Till  we  meet,  farewell.    Loves  to  Dash. 

C.  L. 

DLXI.  —  TO  THE  REV.  EDWARD  IRVING 

April  3,  1828. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  take  advantage  from  the  kind- 
ness which  I  have  experienced  from  you  in  a 
slight  acquaintance  to  introduce  to  you  my  very 
respected  friend  Mr.  Hone,  who  is  of  opinion  that 
your  interference  in  a  point  which  he  will  men- 
tion to  you  may  prove  of  essential  benefit  to  him 
in  some  present  difficulties.  I  should  not  take 
this  liberty  if  I  did  not  feel  that  you  are  a  person 
not  to  be  prejudiced  by  an  obnoxious  name.  All 
that  I  know  of  him  obliges  me  to  respect  him, 
and  to  request  your  kindness  for  him,  if  you  can 
serve  him. 

With  feelings  of  kindest  respect,  I  am,  dear 
Sir,  yours  truly, 

Chas.  Lamb 


120 


DLXIL  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

April  21,  1828. 

Dear  B.  B., — You  must  excuse  my  silence. 
I  have  been  in  very  poor  health  and  spirits,  and 
cannot  write  letters.  I  only  write  to  assure  you, 
as  you  wish'd,  of  my  existence.  All  that  which 
Mitford  tells  you  of  H.'s  book  is  rhodomontade, 
only  H.  has  written  unguardedly  about  me,  and 
nothing  makes  a  man  more  foolish  than  his  own 
foolish  panegyric.  But  I  am  pretty  well  cased 
to  flattery,  or  its  contrary.  Neither  affects  me 
a  turnip's  worth.  Do  you  see  the  author  of  May 
you  Like  it  ?  Do  you  write  to  him  ?  Will  you 
give  my  present  plea  to  him  of  ill  health  for  not 
acknowledging  a  pretty  book  with  a  pretty  front- 
ispiece he  sent  me.  He  is  most  esteem' d  by  me. 
As  for  subscribing  to  books,  in  plain  truth  I  am 
a  man  of  reduced  income,  and  don't  allow  my- 
self twelve  shillings  a-year  to  buy  old  books  with, 
which  must  be  my  excuse.  I  am  truly  sorry 
for  Murray's  demur,  but  I  wash  my  hands  of 
all  booksellers,  and  hope  to  know  them  no  more. 
I  am  sick  and  poorly  and  must  leave  off,  with 
our  joint  kind  remembrances  to  your  daughter 
and  friend  A.  K.  C.  L. 

DLXIII.— TO    THOMAS   ALLSOP 

May  1,  1828. 

Dear  A., — I  am  better.  Mary  quite  well.  We 
121 


expected  to  see  you  before.    I  can't  write  long  let- 
ters.   So  a  friendly  love  to  you  all.      Yours  ever, 

C.  L. 
This  sunshine  is  healing. 

DLXIV.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

May  2,  1828. 

Dear  H.,  —  Valter  Vilson  dines  with  us  to- 
morrow.  Veil !    How  I  should  like  to  see  Hone  ! 

C.  Lamb 

DLXV.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

May  3,  1828. 

Dear  M.,  —  My  friend  Patmore,  author  of  the 
Months,  a  very  pretty  publication,  —  of  sundry 
Essays  in  the  London,  New  Monthly,  &c,  wants  to 
dispose  of  a  volume  or  two  of  Tales.  Perhaps 
they  might  chance  to  suit  Hurst ;  but  be  that  as 
it  may,  he  will  call  upon  you,  under  favour  of  my 
recommendation  ;  and  as  he  is  returning  to  France, 
where  he  lives,  if  you  can  do  anything  for  him 
in  the  treaty  line,  to  save  him  dancing  over  the 
Channel  every  week,  I  am  sure  you  will.  I  said 
I  'd  never  trouble  you  again  ;  but  how  vain  are 
the  resolves  of  mortal  man  !  P.  is  a  very  hearty, 
friendly  fellow,  and  was  poor  John  Scott's  sec- 
ond, as  I  will  be  yours  when  you  want  one. 
May  you  never  be  mine  ! 

Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

122 


DLXVL  — TO   WALTER   WILSON 

May  17,  1828. 

Dear  Walter, — The  sight  of  your  old  name 
again  was  like  a  resurrection.  It  had  passed  away 
into  the  dimness  of  a  dead  friend.  We  shall  be 
most  joyful  to  see  you  here  next  week,  —  if  I 
understand  you  right,  —  for  your  note  dated  the 
10th  arrived  only  yesterday,  Friday  the  1 6th. 
Suppose  I  name  Thursday  next.  If  that  don't  suit, 
write  to  say  so.  A  morning  coach  comes  from 
the  Bell  or  Bell  and  Crown  by  Leather  Lane, 
Holborn,  and  sets  you  down  at  our  house  on 
the  Chase  Side,  next  door  to  Mr.  Westwood's, 
whom  all  the  coachmen  know. 

I  have  four  more  notes  to  write,  so  dispatch 
this  with  again  assuring  you  how  happy  we  shall 
be  to  see  you,  and  to  discuss  Defoe  and  old  mat- 
ters. Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb 

DLXVII.  — TO   THOMAS   N.   TALFOURD 

May  20,  1828. 

My  dear  Talfourd,  —  We  propose  being  with 
you  on  Wednesday  not  unearly,  Mary  to  take 
a  bed  with  you,  and  I  with  Crabbe,  if,  as  I  under- 
stand, he  be  of  the  party.     Yours  ever, 

Ch.  Lamb 


123 


DLXVIII.— TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

May,  1828. 

Dear  Wordsworth,  —  We  had  meant  to  have 
tried  to  see  Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  Dora  next 
Wednesday,  but  we  are  intercepted  by  a  violent 
toothache  which  Mary  has  got  by  getting  up 
next  morning  after  parting  with  you,  to  be  with 
my  going  off  at  half-past  eight  Holborn.  We 
are  poor  travellers,  and  moreover  we  have  com- 
pany (damn  'em),  good  people,  Mr.  Hone  and 
an  old  crony  not  seen  for  twenty  years,  coming 
here  on  Tuesday,  one  stays  night  with  us,  and 
Mary  doubts  my  power  to  get  up  time  enough, 
and  comfort  enough,  to  be  so  far  as  you  are. 
Will  you  name  a  day  in  the  same  or  coming 
week  that  we  can  come  to  you  in  the  morning, 
for  it  would  plague  us  not  to  see  the  other  two 
of  you,  whom  we  cannot  individualize  from 
you,  before  you  go  ?  It  is  bad  enough  not  to  see 
your  sister  Dorothy. 

God  bless  you  sincerely,  C.  Lamb 

DLXIX.  — TO  THE  REV.  HENRY  F.  CARY 

June  10,  1828. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  long  to  see  Wordsworth  once 
more  before  he  goes  hence,  but  it  would  be  at 
the  expence  of  health  and  comfort  my  infirm- 
ities cannot  afford.  Once  only  I  have  been  at 
a  dinner  party,  to  meet  him,  for  a  whole  year 

124 


past,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  not  the  worse 
for  it  now.    There  is  a  necessity  for  my  drinking 

too  much  (don't  show  this  to  the  bishop  of , 

your  friend)  at  and  after  dinner ;  then  I  require 
spirits  at  night  to  allay  the  crudity  of  the  weaker 
Bacchus  ;  and  in  the  morning  I  cool  my  parched 
stomach  with  a  fiery  libation.  Then  I  am  aground 
in  town,  and  call  upon  my  London  friends,  and 
get  new  wets  of  ale,  porter,  &c. ;  then  ride  home, 
drinking  where  the  coach  stops,  as  duly  as  Edward 
set  up  his  Waltham  Crosses.  This,  or  near  it, 
was  the  process  of  my  experiment  of  dining  at 
Talfourd's  to  meet  Wordsworth,  and  I  am  not 
well  now.  Now  let  me  beg  that  we  may  meet 
here  with  assured  safety  to  both  sides.  Darley  and 
Procter  come  here  on  Sunday  morning ;  pray 
arrange  to  come  along  with  them.  Here  I  can 
be  tolerably  moderate.  In  town,  the  very  air  of 
town  turns  my  head  and  is  intoxication  enough, 
if  intoxication  knew  a  limit.  I  am  a  poor  country 
mouse,  and  your  cates  disturb  me.  Tell  me  you 
will  come.  We  have  a  bed,  and  a  half  or  three 
quarters  bed,  at  all  your  services  ;  and  the  adjoin- 
ing inn  has  many.  If  engaged  on  Sunday,  tell  me 
when  you  will  come ;  a  Saturday  will  suit  as  well. 
I  would  that  Wordsworth  would  come  too.  Pray 
believe  that  't  is  my  health  only,  which  brought 
me  here,  that  frightens  me  from  the  wicked  town. 
Mary  joins  in  kind  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Cary 
and  yourself.  Yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb 


DLXX.  —  TO    B.    R.    HAYDON 

August,  1828. 

Dear  Haydon,  —  I  have  been  tardy  in  telling 
you  that  your  "  Chairing  the  Member "  gave 
me  great  pleasure  ;  't  is  true  broad  Hogarthian 
fun,  the  High  Sheriff  capital.  Considering,  too, 
that  you  had  the  materials  imposed  upon  you, 
and  that  you  did  not  select  them  from  the  rude 
world  as  H.  did,  I  hope  to  see  many  more  such 
from  your  hand.  If  the  former  picture  went 
beyond  this  I  have  had  a  loss,  and  the  King  a 
bargain.  I  longed  to  rub  the  back  of  my  hand 
across  the  hearty  canvas  that  two  senses  might 
be  gratified.  Perhaps  the  subject  is  a  little  dis- 
cordantly placed  opposite  to  another  act  of 
Chairing,  where  the  huzzas  were  Hosannahs, — 
but  I  was  pleased  to  see  so  many  of  my  old  ac- 
quaintances brought  together  notwithstanding. 

Believe  me,  yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DLXXI.  — TO  JOHN   RICKMAN 

September  II,  1828. 

Dear  Rickman,  —  We  are  just  come  home 
from  a  London  visit  and  are  mortified  to  learn 
that  we  missed  you  on  Saturday.  The  same  ab- 
sence cannot  recur  before  the  29th,  or  feast  of 
St.  Michael,  on  which  day  I  pay  my  quarterly 
respects  to  the  India  Directors.  If  you  can  make 
another  day  between,  you  are  sure  of  finding  us. 

126 


The  nuts  are  very  acceptable,  Mary  being  a 
grievous  offender  that  way ;  but  to  think  of 
bringing  apples  to  the  proprietor  of  a  whole  tree, 
almost  an  orchard,  and  who  actually  has  an  apple 
chamber  redolent,  was  a  solecism.    Yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb 

Do  you  ever  light  upon  G.  D.  now  ?  Could 
you  bring  him  ? 

DLXXII.  — TO  LOUISA  HOLCROFT 

October  2,  1828. 

Mary  Lamb  has  written  her  last  letter  in  this 
world.  Do  not  imagine  that  her  individual  sub- 
stance has  perished  !  'T  is  extant  yet  and  sleek, 
but  her  epistolary  part  is  dead  before  her,  and 
has  left  me  writing  legatee.  Could  not  you  have 
slipt  down  for  a  day  or  two  this  Michaelmas 
vacation  ?  'T  would  have  been  worth  while  to 
have  seen  the  difference  on  our  green.  On  the 
28th  't  was  whitened  over  with  those  pretty  birds 
that  look  like  snow  in  summer,  and  cackle  like 
ice  breaking  up  :  the  fatal  29th  arrove  (is  that 
English  ?),  and  their  place  knew  them  no  more. 
Here  and  there  a  solitary  duck  survives  to  remind 
one  of  the  superior  race  which  had  been  extin- 
guished —  swans  to  them. 

You  remember  I  asked  a  large  party  of  them 
into  our  grounds  to  meet  you.  Of  all  that 
pleasant  party,  your  dear  self  excepted,  not  one 
remains  with  a  whole  throat. 

127 


You  send  loves  to  Mrs.  Morgan  —  who  or 
what  is  she,  or  what  dream  was  it  that  any  such 
person  is  here  ?  You  add,  too,  that  she  is  grown 
plump  —  is  that  a  reason  why  love  should  be 
sent  her  ?  I  understand  neither  the  logic  nor 
affection  implied  in  that  passage. 

I  have  nearly  lost  my  arithmetic  since  you 
went,  but  count  upon  renewing  it  some  day  with 
you.  Enfield  is  dull,  but  London  is  turbulent. 
We  have  disqualified  ourselves  for  a  town  life  by 
migrating  here,  but  cannot  (for  our  Cockney 
souls)  get  up  a  rural  taste,  so  we  hang  suburb- 
ian. 

I  could  not  bring  myself  to  face  Mr.  Kenny 
in  Brunswick  Square  (time  and  next  occasion 
may  take  off  the  terror).  I  thought  it  would 
look  so  like  coming  to  be  repaid  for  any  little 
hospitalities  which  I  might  have  had  in  my 
power  to  show  him  while  he  staid  at  Enfield, 
which  were  no  more  than  one  gentleman  ought 
to  do  to  another  —  marry,  't  is  well  if  he  thought 
'em  so  much. 

And  how  are  all  the  little  orphans  committed 
to  your  trust  ?  Mind  their  morals  first.  I  would 
not  give  twopence  for  all  the  learning  you  can 
put  into  them  in  comparison  with  that.  Do  they 
lay  three  in  a  bed  ?  Do  you  see  them  properly 
lain  and  tidy  before  you  go  to  bed  yourself  of 
a  night  —  I  mean  before  you  lie  yourself  down 
to  sleep  ? 

Mary  tells  me  to  say  that  Mrs.  Collier  knows 
128 


we  shall  be  happy  to  see  her  any  day  without 
ceremony. 

And  to  have  you  again  when  you  have  va- 
cation, for  you  were  not  very  troublesome  — 
indeed,  we  are  more  hospitable  by  nature  than 
some  folks  would  guess  from  our  practice.  With 
best  loves  to  Mrs.  Kenny,  twins  and  no  twins, 
Yours  truly,  C.  and  M.  Lamb 

DLXXIII.  — TO  JOHN   RICKMAN 

[The  following  is  an  English  version,  given  by  E.  V.  Lu- 
cas, of  a  letter,  written  in  Latin,  from  Charles  Lamb  to  John 
Rickman :] 

Postmark,  Oct.  3,  1828. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  sending  some  kind  of  an  answer  in 
Latin  to  your  very  elaborate  letter,  but  something  has  arisen 
every  day  to  hinder  me.  To  begin  with,  our  awkward  friend 
M.  B.  has  been  with  us  for  a  while,  and  every  day  and  all  day 
we  have  had  such  a  lecture,  you  know  how  he  stutters,  on  legal 
(mind,  nothing  but  legal)  notices,  that  I  have  been  afraid  the 
Latin  I  want  to  write  might  prove  rather  barbaro-forensic  than 
Ciceronian.  He  is  swallowed  up,  body  and  soul,  in  law ;  he 
eats,  drinks,  plays  (at  the  card-table)  Law,  nothing  but  Law. 
He  acts  Ignoramus  in  the  play  so  thoroughly,  that  you  would 
swear  that  in  the  inmost  marrow  of  his  head  (is  not  this  the 
proper  anatomical  term  ? )  there  have  housed  themselves  not 
devils  but  pettifoggers,  to  bemuddle  with  their  noisy  chatter 
his  own  and  his  friends'  wits.  He  brought  here,  't  was  all  his 
luggage,  a  book,  Fearne  on  Contingent  Remainders.  This  book 
he  has  read  so  hard,  and  taken  such  infinite  pains  to  under- 
stand, that  the  reader's  brain  has  few  or  no  Remainders  to 
continge.  Enough,  however,  of  M.  B.  and  his  luggage.  To 
come  back  to  your  claims  upon  me.  Your  return  journey, 
with  notes,  I  read  again  and  again,  nor  have  I  done  with 
them  yet.    You  always  make  something  fresh  out  of  a  hack- 

129 


neyed  theme.  Our  milestones,  you  say,  bristle  with  blunders, 
but  I  must  shortly  explain  why  I  cannot  comply  with  your 
directions  herein. 

Suppose  I  were  to  consult  the  local  magnates  about  a  matter 
of  this  kind.  Ha  !  says  one  of  our  waywardens  or  parish  over- 
seers,—  What  business  is  this  of  yours?  Do  you  want  to  drop 
the  lodger  and  come  out  as  a  householder  ?  —  Now  you  must 
know  that  I  took  this  house  of  mine  at  Enfield,  by  an  obvious 
domiciliary  fiction,  in  my  sister's  name,  to  avoid  the  bother 
and  trouble  of  parish  and  vestry-meetings,  and  to  escape  finding 
myself  one  day  an  overseer  or  big-wig  of  some  sort.  What  then 
would  be  my  reply  to  the  above  question  ? 

Leisure  I  have  secured :  but  of  dignity,  not  a  tittle.  Besides, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  aforesaid  irregularities  are,  to  my 
thinking,  most  entertaining,  and  in  fact  very  touching  indeed. 
Here  am  I,  quit  of  worldly  affairs  of  every  kind  ;  for  if  super- 
annuation does  not  mean  that,  what  does  it  mean  ?  The  world 
then,  being,  as  the  saying  is,  beyond  my  ken,  and  being  myself 
entirely  removed  from  any  accurate  distinctions  of  space  or 
time,  these  mistakes  in  road-measure  do  not  seriously  offend 
me.  For  in  the  infinite  space  of  the  heavens  above  (which  in 
this  contracted  sphere  of  mine  I  desire  to  imitate  so  far  as  may 
be)  what  need  is  there  of  milestones  ?  Local  distance  has  to 
do  with  mortal  affairs.  In  my  walks  abroad,  limited  though 
they  must  be,  I  am  quite  at  my  own  disposal,  and  on  that 
account  I  have  a  good  word  for  our  Enfield  clocks  too.  Their 
hands  generally  point  without  any  servile  reference  to  this  sun 
of  our  world,  in  his  /^-empyrean  position.  They  strike  too 
just  as  it  happens,  according  to  their  own  sweet  wills,  —  one 
—  two  —  three  —  anything  they  like,  and  thus  to  me,  a  more 
fortunate  Whittington,  they  pleasantly  announce,  that  Time, 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  no  more.  Here  you  have  my 
reasons  for  not  attending  in  this  matter  to  the  requests  of  a 
busy  subsolar  such  as  you  are. 

Furthermore,  when  I  reach  the  milestone  that  counts  from 
the  Hicks  Hall  that  stands  now,  I  own  at  once  the  aulic 
dignity,  and,  were  I  a  gaol-bird,  I  should  shake  in  my  shoes. 
When  I  reach  the  next  which  counts  from  the  site  of  the  old 
hall,  my  thoughts  turn  to  the  fallen  grandeur  of  the  pile,  and 

130 


I  reflect  upon  the  perishable  condition  of  the  most  imposing 
of  human  structures.  Thus  I  banish  from  my  soul  all  pride 
and  arrogance,  and  with  such  meditations  purify  my  heart 
from  day  to  day.  A  wayfarer  such  as  I  am,  may  learn  from 
Vincent  Bourne,  in  words  terser  and  neater  than  any  of  mine, 
the  advantages  of  milestones  properly  arranged.  The  lines  are 
at  the  end  of  a  little  poem  of  his,  called  Milestones  —  (Do  you 
remember  it  or  shall  I  write  it  all  out  ? ) 

How  well  the  Milestones'  use  doth  this  express, 
Which  make  the  miles  (seem)  more  and  way  seem  less. 

What  do  you  mean  by  this  —  I  am  borrowing  hand  and 
style  from  this  youngster  of  mine  —  your  son,  I  take  it.  The 
style  looks,  nay  on  careful  inspection  by  these  old  eyes,  is 
most  clearly  your  very  own,  and  the  writing  too.  Either  R's 
or  the  Devil's.  I  will  defer  your  explanation  till  our  next 
meeting — may  it  be  soon. 

My  Latin  failing  me,  as  you  may  infer  from  erasures  above, 
there  is  only  this  to  add.  Farewell,  and  be  sure  to  give 
Mrs.  Rickman  my  kind  remembrances.  C.  Lamb 


DLXXIV.— TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

October  n,  1828. 

A  splendid  edition  of  Bui.  an's  Pilgrim — why, 
the  thought  is  enough  to  turn  one's  moral  stom- 
ach. His  cockle  hat  and  staff  transformed  to  a 
smart  cock'd  beaver  and  a  jemmy  cane,  his  amice 
gray  to  the  last  Regent  Street  cut,  and  his  pain- 
ful palmer's  pace  to  the  modern  swagger.  Stop 
thy  friend's  sacrilegious  hand.  Nothing  can  be 
done  for  B.but  to  reprint  the  old  cuts  in  as  homely 
but  good  a  style  as  possible.  The  Vanity  Fair, 
and  the  pilgrims  there — the  silly  soothness  in 
his    setting-out    countenance  —  the     Christian 

l3l 


idiocy  (in  a  good  sense)  of  his  admiration  of  the 
shepherds  on  the  Delectable  Mountains  —  the 
lions  so  truly  allegorical  and  remote  from  any 
similitude  to  Pidcock's.  The  great  head  (the  au- 
thor's) capacious  of  dreams  and  similitudes  dream- 
ing in  the  dungeon.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  my 
edition,  what  I  had  when  a  child  :  if  you  do,  can 
you  bear  new  designs  from — Martin,  enamel'd 
into  copper  or  silver  plate  by  —  Heath,  accom- 
panied with  verses  from  Mrs.  Hemans's  pen,  O 
how  unlike  his  own  !  — 

Wouldst  thou  divert  thyself  from  melancholy  ? 

VVouldst  thou  be  pleasant,  yet  be  far  from  folly  ? 

Wouldst  thou  read  riddles  and  their  explanation  ? 

Or  else  be  drowned  in  thy  contemplation  ? 

Dost  thou  love  picking  meat  ?  or  wouldst  thou  see 

A  man  i'  th'  clouds,  and  hear  him  speak  to  thee  ? 

Wouldst  thou  be  in  a  dream,  and  yet  not  sleep  ? 

Or  wouldst  thou  in  a  moment  laugh  and  weep  ? 

Or  wouldst  thou  lose  thyself,  and  catch  no  harm, 

And  find  thyself  again  without  a  charm  ? 

Wouldst  read  thyself,  and  read  thou  knowst  not  what, 

And  yet  know  whether  thou  art  blest  or  not 

By  reading  the  same  lines  ?     O  then  come  hither, 

And  lay  my  book,  thy  head  and  heart  together. 

John  Bunyan 

Shew  me  such  poetry  in  any  of  the  fifteen  forth- 
coming combinations  of  show  and  emptiness, 
yclept  annuals.  Let  me  whisper  in  your  ear  that 
wholesome  sacramental  bread  is  not  more  nu- 
tritious than  papistical  wafer  stuff,  than  these 
(to  head  and  heart)  exceed  the  visual  frippery  of 
Mitford's    Salamander  God,   baking   himself  up 

132 


to  the  work  of  creation  in  a  solar  oven,  not 
yet  by  the  terms  of  the  context  itself  existing. 
Blake's  ravings  made  genteel.  So  there 's  verses 
for  thy  verses  ;  and  now  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  sight  of  your  hand  gladden'd  me.  I  have 
been  daily  trying  to  write  to  you,  but  paralysed. 
You  have  spur'd  me  on  this  tiny  effort,  and  at 
intervals  I  hope  to  hear  from  and  talk  to  you. 
But  my  spirits  have  been  in  a  deprest  way  for 
a  long  long  time,  and  they  are  things  which 
must  be  to  you  of  faith,  for  who  can  explain 
depression  ? 

Yes,  I  am  hooked  into  the  Gem,  but  only  for 
some  lines  written  on  a  dead  infant  of  the  edit- 
or's, which  being  as  it  were  his  property,  I  could 
not  refuse  their  appearing,  but  I  hate  the  paper, 
the  type,  the  gloss,  the  dandy  plates,  the  names 
of  contributors  poked  up  into  your  eyes  in  first 
page,  and  whistled  thro'  all  the  covers  of  maga- 
zines, the  barefaced  sort  of  emulation,  the  un- 
modest  candidateship,  brought  into  so  little  space 
—  in  those  old  Londons  a  signature  was  lost  in  the 
wood  of  matter  —  the  paper  coarse  (till  latterly, 
which  spoil' d  them)  —  in  short  I  detest  to  appear 
in  an  Annual. 

What  a  fertile  genius  (and  a  quiet  good  soul 
withal)  is  Hood.  He  has  fifty  things  in  hand, 
farces  to  supply  the  Adelphi  for  the  season,  a 
comedy  for  one  of  the  great  theatres,  just  ready, 
a  whole  entertainment  by  himself  for  Mathews 
and  Yates  to  figure  in,  a  meditated  Comic  Annual 

r33 


for  next  year,  to  be  nearly  done  by  himself. 
You  'd  like  him  very  much.  Wordsworth  I  see 
has  a  good  many  pieces  announced  in  one  of 
'em,  not  our  Gem.  W.  Scott  has  distributed  him- 
self like  a  bribe  haunch  among  'em.  Of  all  the 
poets,  Cary  has  had  the  good  sense  to  keep  quite 
clear  of  'em,  with  clergy-gentle-manly  right 
notions.  Don't  think  I  set  up  for  being  proud 
in  this  point,  I  like  a  bit  of  flattery  tickling  my 
vanity  as  well  as  any  one.  But  these  pompous 
masquerades  without  masks  (naked  names  or 
faces)  I  hate.  So  there  's  a  bit  of  my  mind.  Be- 
sides they  infallibly  cheat  you,  I  mean  the  book- 
sellers. If  I  get  but  a  copy,  I  only  expect  it  from 
Hood's  being  my  friend.  Coleridge  has  lately 
been  here.  He,  too,  is  deep  among  the  Prophets 
—  the  Year-servers  —  the  mob  of  Gentlemen 
annuals.    But  they  '11  cheat  him,  I  know. 

And  now,  dear  B.  B.,  the  sun  shining  out 
merrily,  and  the  dirty  clouds  we  had  yesterday 
having  wash'd  their  own  faces  clean  with  their 
own  rain,  tempts  me  to  wander  up  Winchmore 
Hill,  or  into  some  of  the  delightful  vicinages  of 
Enfield,  which  I  hope  to  show  you  at  some  time 
when  you  can  get  a  few  days  up  to  the  great 
town.  Believe  me  it  would  give  both  of  us  great 
pleasure  to  show  you  all  three  (we  can  lodge 
you)  our  pleasant  farms  and  villages. 

We  both  join  in  kindest  loves  to  you  and 
yours.  Ch.  Lamb,  redivivus 


*34 


DLXXV.—  TO  CHARLES  C.  CLARKE 

October,  1828. 

Dear  Clarke, — We  did  expect  to  see  you  with 
Victoria  and  the  Novellos  before  this,  and  do  not 
quite  understand  why  we  have  not.  Mrs.  N.  and 
V.  [Vincent]  promised  us  after  the  York  expe- 
dition; a  day  being  named  before,  which  fail'd. 
'T  is  not  too  late.  The  autumn  leaves  drop  gold, 
and  Enfield  is  beautifuller  —  to  a  common  eye 
—  than  when  you  lurked  at  the  Greyhound. 
Benedicks  are  close,  but  how  I  so  totally  missed 
you  at  that  time,  going  for  my  morning  cup  of 
ale  duly,  is  a  mystery.  'T  was  stealing  a  match 
before  one's  face  in  earnest.  But  certainly  we 
had  not  a  dream  of  your  appropinquity.  I  in- 
stantly prepared  an  Epithalamium,  in  the  form 
of  a  Sonata  —  which  I  was  sending  to  Novello 
to  compose  —  but  Mary  forbid  it  me,  as  too 
light  for  the  occasion  — as  if  the  subject  required 
anything  heavy  —  so  in  a  tiff  with  her  I  sent  no 
congratulation  at  all.  Tho'  I  promise  you  the 
wedding  was  very  pleasant  news  to  me  indeed. 
Let  your  reply  name  a  day  this  next  week,  when 
you  will  come  as  many  as  a  coach  will  hold; 
such  a  day  as  we  had  at  Dulwich.  My  very  kind- 
est love  and  Mary's  to  Victoria  and  the  Novellos. 
The  enclosed  is  from  a  friend  nameless,  but  high- 
ish  in  office,  and  a  man  whose  accuracy  of  state- 
ment may  be  relied  on  with  implicit  confidence. 
He  wants  the  expose  to  appear  in  a  newspaper  as 

*35 


the  "  greatest  piece  of  legal  and  Parliamentary 
villainy  he  ever  remembered,"  and  he  has  had 
experience  in  both  ;  and  thinks  it  would  answer 
afterwards  in  a  cheap  pamphlet  printed  at  Lam- 
beth in  8°  sheet,  as  1 6,000  families  in  that  parish 
are  interested.  I  know  not  whether  the  present 
Examiner  keeps  up  the  character  of  exposing 
abuses,  for  I  scarce  see  a  paper  now.  If  so,  you 
may  ascertain  Mr.  Hunt  of  the  strictest  truth  of 
the  statement,  at  the  peril  of  my  head.  But  if 
this  won't  do,  transmit  it  me  back,  I  beg,  per 
coach,  or  better,  bring  it  with  you. 

Yours  unaltered,  C.  Lamb 

DLXXVI.  — TO  VINCENT  NOVELLO 

November  6,  1828. 

My  dear  Novello, —  I  am  afraid  I  shall  ap- 
pear rather  tardy  in  offering  my  congratulations, 
however  sincere,  upon  your  daughter's  marriage. 
The  truth  is,  I  had  put  together  a  little  Serenata 
upon  the  occasion,  but  was  prevented  from  send- 
ing it  by  my  sister,  to  whose  judgment  I  am  apt 
to  defer  too  much  in  these  kind  of  things ;  so 
that,  now  I  have  her  consent,  the  offering,  I  am 
afraid,  will  have  lost  the  grace  of  seasonableness. 
Such  as  it  is,  I  send  it.  She  thinks  it  a  little  too 
old-fashioned  in  the  manner,  too  much  like  what 
they  wrote  a  century  back.  But  I  cannot  write 
in  the  modern  style,  if  I  try  ever  so  hard.  I  have 
attended  to  the  proper  divisions  for  the  music, 

136 


and  you  will  have  little  difficulty  in  composing 
it.  If  I  may  advise,  make  Pepusch  your  model, 
or  Blow.  It  will  be  necessary  to  have  a  good 
second  voice,  as  the  stress  of  the  melody  lies 
there : 

SERENATA,  FOR  TWO  VOICES 

On  the  Marriage  of  Charles  Cow  den  Clarke,  Esqre.,  to  Victoria,  eldest 
daughter  of  Vincent  Novello,  Esqre. 

Duetto 
Wake  th'  harmonious  voice  and  string, 
Love  and  Hymen's  triumph  sing, 
Sounds  with  secret  charms  combining, 
In  melodious  union  joining, 
Best  the  wondrous  joys  can  tell, 
That  in  hearts  united  dwell. 

Recitative 
First    To  young  Victoria's  happy  fame 
Voice.       Well  may  the  Arts  a  trophy  raise, 
Music  grows  sweeter  in  her  praise, 
And,  own'd  by  her,  with  rapture  speaks  her  name. 
To  touch  the  brave  Cowdenio's  heart, 

The  Graces  all  in  her  conspire ; 
Love  arms  her  with  his  surest  dart, 
Apollo  with  his  lyre. 

Air 
The  list'ning  Muses  all  around  her 

Think  'tis  Phoebus'  strain  they  hear; 
And  Cupid,  drawing  near  to  wound  her, 

Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear. 

Recitative 
Second  While  crowds  of  rivals  with  despair 
Voice.  Silent  admire,  or  vainly  court  the  Fair, 
Behold  the  happy  conquest  of  her  eyes, 
A  Hero  is  the  glorious  prize ! 

J37 


In  courts,  in  camps,  thro'  distant  realms  renown'd, 
Cowdenio  comes  !  —  Victoria,  see, 

He  comes  with  British  honour  crown'd, 
Love  leads  his  eager  steps  to  thee. 

Air 
In  tender  sighs  he  silence  breaks, 

The  Fair  his  flame  approves, 
Consenting  blushes  warm  her  cheeks, 

She  smiles,  she  yields,  she  loves. 

Recitative 

First  Voice.    Now  Hymen  at  the  altar  stands, 

And  while  he  joins  their  faithful  hands, 
Behold  !  by  ardent  vows  brought  down, 
Immortal  concord,  heavenly  bright, 
Array'd  in  robes  of  purest  light, 
Descends,  th'  auspicious  rites  to  crown. 
Her  golden  harp  the  goddess  brings  ; 
Its  magic  sound 
Commands  a  sudden  silence  all  around, 
And  strains  prophetic  thus  attune  the  strings. 

Duetto 
First  Voice.  The  Swain  his  Nymph  possessing, 
Second  Voice.  The  Nymph  her  swain  caressing, 
First  and  Shall  still  improve  the  blessing, 
Second.        For  ever  kind  and  true. 

Both.   While  rolling  years  are  flying, 

Love,  Hymen's  lamp  supplying, 
With  fuel  never  dying, 
Shall  still  the  flame  renew. 

To  so  great  a  master  as  yourself  I  have  no  need 
to  suggest  that  the  peculiar  tone  of  the  composi- 
tion demands  sprightliness,  occasionally  checked 
by  tenderness,  as  in  the  second  air,  — 
She  smiles,  —  she  yields, —  she  loves. 
I38 


Again,  you  need  not  be  told  that  each  fifth  line 
of  the  two  first  recitatives  requires  a  crescendo. 
And  your  exquisite  taste  will  prevent  your  falling 
into  the  error  of  Purcell,  who  at  a  passage  similar 
to  that  in  my  first  air,  — 

Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear, 

directed  the  first  violin  thus,  — 

Here  the  first  violin  must  drop  his  bow. 

But,  besides  the  absurdity  of  disarming  his  prin- 
cipal performer  of  so  necessary  an  adjunct  to  his 
instrument,  in  such  an  emphatic  part  of  the  com- 
position too,  which  must  have  had  a  droll  effect 
at  the  time,  all  such  minutiae  of  adaptation  are 
at  this  time  of  day  very  properly  exploded,  and 
Jackson  of  Exeter  very  fairly  ranks  them  under 
the  head  of  puns. 

Should  you  succeed  in  the  setting  of  it,  we 
propose  having  it  performed  (we  have  one  very 
tolerable  second  voice  here,  and  Mr.  Holmes, 
I  daresay,  would  supply  the  minor  parts)  at  the 
Greyhound.  But  it  must  be  a  secret  to  the 
young  couple  till  we  can  get  the  band  in  readiness. 

Believe  me,  dear  Novello,  yours  truly, 

C.  Lamb 

DLXXVIL  — TO  LAMAN  BLANCHARD 

November  9,  1828. 

Sir,  —  I  beg  to  return  my  acknowledgments 
for  the  present  of  your  elegant  volume,  which 

x39 


I  should  have  esteemed,  without  the  bribe  of  the 
name  prefixed  to  it.  I  have  been  much  pleased 
with  it  throughout,  but  am  most  taken  with  the 
peculiar  delicacy  of  some  of  the  sonnets.  I  shall 
put  them  up  among  my  poetical  treasures. 

Your  obliged  servant,  C.  Lamb 

DLXXVIII.  — TO  THOMAS  HOOD 

Late  autumn,  1828. 

Dear  Lamb,  —  You  are  an  impudent  varlet ; 
but  I  will  keep  your  secret.  We  dine  at  Ayrton's 
on  Thursday,  and  shall  try  to  find  Sarah  and  her 
two  spare  beds  for  that  night  only.  Miss  M.  and 
her  tragedy  may  be  dished  :  so  may  not  you  and 
your  rib.    Health  attend  you. 

Yours,  T.  Hood,  Esq^ 

Miss  Bridget  Hood  sends  love. 
DLXXIX.  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

December,  1828. 

Dear  M.,  —  As  I  see  no  blood-marks  on  the 
Green  Lanes  Road,  I  conclude  you  got  in  safe 
skins  home.  Have  you  thought  of  inquiring 
Miss  Wilson's  change  of  abode  ?  Of  the  two 
copies  of  my  drama  I  want  one  sent  to  Words- 
worth, together  with  a  complete  copy  of  Hone's 
Table  Book,  for  which  I  shall  be  your  debtor  till 
we  meet.    Perhaps  Longman  will  take  charge 

140 


of  this  parcel.  The  other  is  for  Coleridge  at 
Mr.  Gilman's,  Grove,  Highgate,  which  may  be 
sent,  or,  if  you  have  a  curiosity  to  see  him,  you 
will  make  an  errand  with  it  to  him,  and  tell 
him  we  mean  very  soon  to  come  and  see  him, 
if  the  Gilmans  can  give  or  get  us  a  bed.  I  am 
ashamed  to  be  so  troublesome.  Pray  let  Hood 
see  the  Eclectic  Review  —  a  rogue  !  The  second 
parts  of  the  Blackwood  you  may  make  waste  paper 
of.  Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

DLXXX.— TO   BERNARD   BARTON 

December  5,  1828. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  am  ashamed  to  receive  so 
many  nice  books  from  you,  and  to  have  none  to 
send  you  in  return.  You  are  always  sending  me 
some  fruits  or  wholesome  pot-herbs,  and  mine 
is  the  garden  of  the  sluggard,  nothing  but  weeds 
or  scarce  they.  Nevertheless  if  I  knew  how  to 
transmit  it,  I  would  send  you  Blackwood' s  of  this 
month,  which  contains  a  little  drama,  to  have 
your  opinion  of  it,  and  how  far  I  have  improved, 
or  otherwise,  upon  its  prototype.  Thank  you  for 
your  kind  sonnet.  It  does  me  good  to  see  the 
Dedication  to  a  Christian  Bishop.  I  am  for  a 
Comprehension,  as  Divines  call  it,  but  so  as  that 
the  Church  shall  go  a  good  deal  more  than  half- 
way over  to  the  Silent  Meeting-house.  I  have 
ever  said  that  the  Quakers  are  the  only  Professors 
of  Christianity  as  I  read  it  in  the  Evangiles ;  I 

141 


say  Professors  —  marry,  as  to  practice,  with  their 
gaudy  hot  types  and  poetical  vanities,  they  are 
much  at  one  with  the  sinful. 

Martin's  frontispiece  is  a  very  fine  thing,  let 
C.  L.  say  what  he  please  to  the  contrary.  Of  the 
poems,  I  like  them  as  a  volume  better  than  any 
one  of  the  preceding ;  particularly,  Power  and 
Gentleness;  The  Present ;  Lady  Russell — with  the 
exception  that  I  do  not  like  the  noble  act  of 
Curtius,  true  or  false,  one  of  the  grand  founda- 
tions of  old  Roman  patriotism,  to  be  sacrificed 
to  Lady  R.'s  taking  notes  on  her  husband's  trial. 
If  a  thing  is  good,  why  invidiously  bring  it  into 
light  with  something  better  ?  There  are  too  few 
heroic  things  in  this  world  to  admit  of  our  mar- 
shalling them  in  anxious  etiquettes  of  precedence. 
Would  you  make  a  poem  on  the  Story  of  Ruth 
(pretty  story  !)  and  then  say,  Aye,  but  how  much 
better  is  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren  ! 
To  go  on,  the  Stanzas  to  "  Chalon "  want  the 
name  of  Clarkson  in  the  body  of  them  ;  it  is  left 
to  inference.  The  Battle  of  Gibeon  is  spirited 
again  —  but  you  sacrifice  it  in  last  stanza  to  the 
Song  at  Bethlehem.  Is  it  quite  orthodox  to  do  so  ? 
The  first  was  good,  you  suppose,  for  that  dis- 
pensation. Why  set  the  word  against  the  word  ? 
It  puzzles  a  weak  Christian.  So  Watts's  Psalms 
are  an  implied  censure  on  David's.  But  as  long 
as  the  Bible  is  supposed  to  be  an  equally  divine 
emanation  with  the  Testament,  so  long  it  will 
stagger  weaklings  to  have  them  set  in  opposition. 

142 


Godiva  is  delicately  touch' d.  I  have  always 
thought  it  a  beautiful  story  characteristic  of  old 
English  times.  But  I  could  not  help  amusing 
myself  with  the  thought  —  if  Martin  had  chosen 
this  subject  for  a  frontispiece,  there  would  have 
been  in  some  dark  corner  a  white  lady,  white  as 
the  Walker  on  the  waves  —  riding  upon  some 
mystical  quadruped  —  and  high  above  would 
have  risen  "  tower  above  tower  a  massy  structure 
high"  the  Tenterden  steeples  of  Coventry,  till 
the  poor  Cross  would  scarce  have  known  itself 
among  the  clouds,  and  far  above  them  all,  the 
distant  Clint  hills  peering  over  chimney  pots, 
piled  up,  Ossa-on-Olympus  fashion,  till  the  ad- 
miring spectator  (admirer  of  a  noble  deed)  might 
have  gone  look  for  the  lady,  as  you  must  hunt 
for  the  other  in  the  lobster.  But  M.  should  be 
made  royal  architect.  What  palaces  he  would 
pile  !  —  but  then  what  parliamentary  grants  to 
make  them  good  !  ne'ertheless  I  like  the  frontis- 
piece. 

The  "Elephant"  is  pleasant;  and  I  am  glad 
you  are  getting  into  a  wider  scope  of  subjects. 
There  may  be  too  much,  not  religion,  but  too 
many  good  words  into  a  book,  till  it  becomes,  as 
Shakespeare  says  of  religion,  a  rhapsody  of  words. 
I  will  just  name  that  you  have  brought  in  the 
Song  to  the  Shepherds  in  four  or  five  if  not  six 
places.  Now  this  is  not  good  economy.  The 
Enoch  is  fine ;  and  here  I  can  sacrifice  Elijah 
to  it,  because  'tis  illustrative  only,  and  not  dis- 

H3 


paraging  of  the  latter  prophet's  departure.  I  like 
this  best  in  the  book.  Lastly,  I  much  like  the 
Heron,  't  is  exquisite :  know  you  Lord  Thurlow's 
sonnet  to  a  bird  of  that  sort  on  Lacken  water  ? 
If  not,  'tis  indispensable  I  send  it  you,  with 
my  Blackwood,  if  you  tell  me  how  best  to  send 
them.  Fludyer  is  pleasant.  You  are  getting  gay 
and  Hood-ish.  What  is  the  Enigma  ?  money  — 
if  not,  I  fairly  confess  I  am  foiled  —  and  sphynx 
must  [here  are  words  crossed  through]  four  times 
I  've  tried  to  write  eat  —  eat  me  —  and  the  blot- 
ting pen  turns  it  into  cat  me.  And  now  I  will 
take  my  leave  with  saying  I  esteem  thy  verses, 
like  thy  present,  honour  thy  frontispicer,  and 
right-reverence  thy  Patron  and  Dedicatee,  and 
am,  dear  B.  B.,  yours  heartily,  C.  L. 

Our  joint  kindest  loves  to  A.  K.  and  your 
daughter. 

DLXXXI.  — TO  LOUISA  HOLCROFT 

December  5,  1828. 

Dear  Miss  H., —  Mary,  who  never  writes,  bids 
me  thank  you  for  the  handkerchief.  I  do  not 
understand  such  work,  but  if  I  apprehend  her 
rightly,  she  would  have  preferred  blonde  to 
white  sarcenet  for  the  trimming ;  but  she  did 
not  wish  me  to  tell  you  so.  I  only  hint  it  for 
the  next.  We  are  sorry  for  the  mess  of  illness 
you  are  involved  in.    Are  you  stout  enough  to 

144 


be  the  general  nurse  ?  Who  told  you  we  should 
not  be  glad  to  see  you  on  Sundays  and  all  ?  Tho' 
we  devote  that  day  to  its  proper  duties,  as  you 
know,  yet  you  are  come  of  a  religious  stock,  and 
to  you  it  is  not  irksome  to  join  in  our  simple 
forms,  where  the  heart  is  all.  Your  little  protegee 
is  well,  and  as  yet  honest,  but  she  has  no  one  to 
give  her  caps  now. 

Thus  far  I  had  written  last  night.  You  will 
see  by  my  altered  scrawl  that  I  am  not  so  well 
this  morning.  I  got  up  with  a  fevered  skin,  and 
spots  are  come  out  all  over  me.  Pray  God,  it 
is  not  the  measles.  You  did  not  let  any  of  the 
children  touch  the  seal  with  their  little  measly 
hands,  did  you  ?  You  should  be  careful  when 
contagion  is  in  the  house.  Pray  God,  your  letter 
may  not  have  conveyed  the  disorder.  Our  poor 
postman  looks  flushed  since.  What  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  introduce  a  disease  into  a  whole 
village !  Yet  so  simple  a  thing  as  a  letter  has 
been  known  to  convey  a  malady.  I  look  at  your 
note.  I  see  it  is  wafered,  not  sealed.  That  makes 
it  more  likely.  Wafers  are  flour,  and  I  've  known 
a  serious  illness  to  be  communicated  in  a  piece 
of  plum-cake.  I  never  had  the  measles.  How 
my  head  throbs !  You  cannot  be  too  cautious, 
dear  Louisa,  what  you  do  under  such  cir- 
cum 

I  am  a  little  better  than  when  I  broke  off  at 
the  last  word.  Your  good  sense  will  point  out 
to   you   that   the  deficient   syllables   should   be 

145 


"stances."    Circumstances.    If  I  am  incoherent, 

impute  it  to  alarm.    I  will  walk  in  the  air 

I  am  not  much  refreshed.  The  air  seemed 
hot  and  muggy.    Somehow  I  feel  quite  irritable 

—  there  is  no  word  in  English  —  a  la  variole  — 
we  have  no  phrase  to  answer  it — smallpoxical 
comes  the  nearest.  Maybe  't  was  worse  than  the 
measles  what  Charles  has.  I  will  send  for  Mr. 
Asbury. 

I  have  seen  the  apothecary.  He  pronounces 
my  complaint  to  be,  as  I  feared,  of  the  variola 
kind,  but  gives  me  hopes  I  shall  not  be  much 
marked.  I  hope  we  shall  get  well  together.  But 
at  my  time  of  life  it  is  attended  with  more 
hazards.  Whatever  becomes  of  me,  I  shall  leave 
the  world  without  a  harsh  thought  of  you.  It 
was  only  a  girlish  imprudence.  I  am  quite  faint. 
Two  pimples  more  come  out  within  this  last 
minute.  Mary  is  crying.  She  looks  red.  So 
does  Becky.    I  must  go  to  bed. 

Yours  in  constant  pain.  C.  L. 

You  will  see  by  my  will,  if  it  comes  to  that 

—  I  bear  you  no  ill  w .    Oh! 

DLXXXII.  — TO    CHARLES   C.    CLARKE 

December,  1828. 

My  dear  three  C.'s, — The  way  from  Southgate 
to  Colney  Hatch  thro'  the  unfrequentedest  black- 
berry paths  that  ever  concealed  their  coy  bunches 

146 


from  a  truant  citizen,  we  have  accidentally  fallen 
upon  —  the  giant  tree  by  Cheshunt  we  have 
missed,  but  keep  your  chart  to  go  by,  unless  you 
will  be  our  conduct  — •  at  present  I  am  disabled 
from  further  flights  than  just  to  skirt  round  Clay 
Hill,  with  a  peep  at  the  fine  back  woods,  by 
strained  tendons,  got  by  skipping  a  skipping-rope 
at  5  3  —  heu  mihi  non  sum  qualis.  But  do  you  know, 
now  you  come  to  talk  of  walks,  a  ramble  of  four 
hours  or  so  —  there  and  back  —  to  the  willow 
and  lavender  plantations  at  the  south  corner  of 
Northaw  Church  by  a  well  dedicated  to  Saint 
Claridge,  with  the  clumps  of  finest  moss  rising 
hillock  fashion,  which  I  counted  to  the  number 
of  two  hundred  and  sixty,  and  are  called  "  Clar- 
idge's  covers "  —  the  tradition  being  that  that 
saint  entertained  so  many  angels  or  hermits 
there,  upon  occasion  of  blessing  the  waters?  The 
legends  have  set  down  the  fruits  spread  upon  that 
occasion,  and  in  the  Black  Book  of  St.  Albans 
some  are  named  which  are  not  supposed  to  have 
been  introduced  into  this  island  till  a  century 
later.  But  waiving  the  miracle,  a  sweeter  spot  is 
not  in  ten  counties  round  ;  you  are  knee-deep 
in  clover,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  not  above 
a  middling  man's  height ;  from  this  paradise, 
making  a  day  of  it,  you  go  to  see  the  ruins  of  an 
old  convent  at  March  Hall,  where  some  of  the 
painted  glass  is  yet  whole  and  fresh. 

If  you  do  not  know  this,  you  do  not  know 
the  capabilities  of  this  country  ;  you  may  be  said 

H7 


to  be  a  stranger  to  Enfield.  I  found  it  out  one 
morning  in  October,  and  so  delighted  was  I  that 
I  did  not  get  home  before  dark,  well  a-paid. 

I  shall  long  to  show  you  the  clump  meadows, 
as  they  are  called ;  we  might  do  that,  without 
reaching  March  Hall.  When  the  days  are  longer, 
we  might  take  both,  and  come  home  by  Forest 
Cross,  so  skirt  over  Pennington  and  the  cheerful 
little  village  of  Churchley  to  Forty  Hill. 

But  these  are  dreams  till  summer  ;  meanwhile 
we  should  be  most  glad  to  see  you  for  a  lesser 
excursion  —  say,  Sunday  next,  you  and  another, 
or  if  more,  best  on  a  weekday  with  a  notice,  but 
o'  Sundays,  as  far  as  a  leg  of  mutton  goes,  most 
welcome.  We  can  squeeze  out  a  bed.  Edmon- 
ton coaches  run  every  hour,  and  my  pen  has  run 
out  its  quarter.    Heartily  farewell. 

DLXXXIII.— TO   T.    N.   TALFOURD 

End  of  1828. 

Dear  Talfourd,  —  You  could  not  have  told 
me  of  a  more  friendly  thing  than  you  have  been 
doing.  I  am  proud  of  my  namesake.  I  shall  take 
care  never  to  do  any  dirty  action,  pick  pockets, 
or  anyhow  get  myself  hanged,  for  fear  of  reflect- 
ing ignominy  upon  your  young  Chrisom.  I  have 
now  a  motive  to  be  good.  I  shall  not  omnis 
moriar ;  —  my  name  borne  down  the  black  gulf 
of  oblivion. 

I  shall  survive  in  eleven  letters,  five  more  than 
148 


Caesar.    Possibly  I  shall  come  to  be  knighted,  or 
more !    Sir  C.  L.  Talfourd,  Bart. ! 

Yet  hath  it  an  authorish  twang  with  it,  which 
will  wear  out  my  name  for  poetry.  Give  him  a 
smile  from  me  till  I  see  him. 

If  you  do  not  drop  down  before,  some  day  in 
the  week  after  next  I  will  come  and  take  one 
night's  lodging  with  you,  if  convenient,  before 
you  go  hence.  You  shall  name  it.  We  are  in 
town  to-morrow  speciali  gratia,  but  by  no  ar- 
rangement can  get  up  near  you. 

Believe  us  both,  with  greatest  regards,  yours 
and  Mrs.  Talfourd's, 

Charles  Lamb-Philo-Talfourd 

I  come  as  near  it  as  I  can. 

DLXXXIV.  —  TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

About  1828. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  Much  thanks  for  the  books. 
Hood  is  excellent.  Mr.  Westwood,  who  wishes 
to  consult  you  about  his  son,  will  acquaint  you 
with  our  change  of  life.  Mary's  very  bad  spirits 
drove  me  upon  it,  and  it  seems  to  answer  admir- 
ably. 

We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  at  our  table  and 
hole ;   say,  the  Sunday  after  next. 

Yours  very  truly,  C.  L. 


149 


DLXXXV.  — TO    WILLIAM    HONE 

[No  date.] 

Dear  H.,  —  I  don't  know  by  your  letter 
whether  you  are  resident  at  Newington  Green, 
nor  at  what  number.  So  I  discharge  this,  as  a 
surer  shot,  at  Russell  Court.  Your  almanack  is 
funny ;  it  only  disappointed  me  as  being  not  an 
almanack.  What  a  one  you  might  make  !  em- 
bracing a  real  calendar,  with  astrological  ridicule, 
predictions  like  Tom  Brown's  "  for  every  day  in 
the  week."  The  only  information  I  receive  from 
this  is  that  New  Year's  Day  happened  this  year 
on  the  first  of  January.  I  do  not  see  the  days 
even  set  down  on  which  I  ought  to  go  to  church, 
the  Dominical  Letter  :  fie  !  I  will  only  add  that 
Enfield  is  still  here,  with  its  accustomed  shoul- 
ders of  mutton,  fine  Geneva  tipple,  &c. 

So  hoping  some  time  for  a  fine  day's  walk 
with  you,  I  rest,  C.  L. 

Mary's  love  to  both  of  you. 

DLXXXVL  — TO    GEORGE    DYER 

January,  1829. 

Dear  Dyer,  —  My  very  good  friend,  and 
Charles  Clarke's  father-in-law,  Vincent  Novello, 
wishes  to  shake  hands  with  you.  Make  him 
play  you  a  tune.  He  is  a  damn'd  fine  musician, 
and,  what  is  better,  a  good  man  and  true.     He 

150 


will  tell  you  how  glad  we  should  be  to  have 
Mrs.  Dyer  and  you  here  for  a  few  days.  Our 
young  friend,  Miss  Isola,  has  been  here  holy- 
daymaking,  but  leaves  us  to-morrow. 

Yours  ever,         Ch.  Lamb 

DLXXXVII.  — TO    B.   W.    PROCTER 

January  19,  1829. 

My  dear  Procter,  —  I  am  ashamed  to  have 
not  taken  the  drift  of  your  pleasant  letter,  which 
I  find  to  have  been  pure  invention.  But  jokes 
are  not  suspected  in  Boeotian  Enfield.  We  are 
plain  people  ;  and  our  talk  is  of  corn,  and  cattle, 
and  Waltham  markets.  Besides,  I  was  a  little 
out  of  sorts  when  I  received  it.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
involved  in  a  case  which  has  fretted  me  to 
death ;  and  I  have  no  reliance,  except  on  you, 
to  extricate  me.  I  am  sure  you  will  give  me 
your  best  legal  advice,  having  no  professional 
friend  besides  but  Robinson  and  Talfourd,  with 
neither  of  whom  at  present  I  am  on  the  best 
terms. 

My  brother's  widow  left  a  will,  made  during 
the  lifetime  of  my  brother,  in  which  I  am 
named  sole  executor,  by  which  she  bequeaths 
forty  acres  of  arable  property,  which  it  seems 
she  held  under  Covert  Baron,  unknown  to  my 
brother,  to  the  heirs  of  the  body  of  Elizabeth 
Dowden,  her  married  daughter  by  a  first  hus- 
band,  in  fee-simple,  recoverable  by  fine — in- 


vested  property,  mind  ;  for  there  is  the  difficulty 
—  subject  to  leet  and  quitrent ;  in  short,  worded 
in  the  most  guarded  terms,  to  shut  out  the 
property  from  Isaac  Dowden,  the  husband.  In- 
telligence has  just  come  of  the  death  of  this 
person  in  India,  where  he  made  a  will,  entailing 
this  property  (which  seem'd  entangled  enough 
already)  to  the  heirs  of  his  body,  that  should 
not  be  born  of  his  wife ;  for  it  seems  by  the  law 
in  India,  natural  children  can  recover.  They 
have  put  the  cause  into  Exchequer  process,  here 
removed  by  Certiorari  from  the  native  Courts ; 
and  the  question  is,  whether  I  should,  as  execu- 
tor, try  the  cause  here,  or  again  re-remove  it 
to  the  Supreme  Sessions  at  Bangalore  (which 
I  understand  I  can,  or  plead  a  hearing  before 
the  Privy  Council  here).  As  it  involves  all  the 
little  property  of  Elizabeth  Dowden,  I  am  anxious 
to  take  the  fittest  steps,  and  what  may  be  least 
expensive.  Pray  assist  me,  for  the  case  is  so 
embarrassed,  that  it  deprives  me  of  sleep  and 
appetite.  M.  Burney  thinks  there  is  a  case  like 
it  in  Chapt.  170,  sect.  5,  in  Fearne's  Contingent 
Remainders.  Pray  read  it  over  with  him  dispas- 
sionately, and  let  me  have  the  result.  The  com- 
plexity lies  in  the  questionable  power  of  the 
husband  to  alienate  in  usum  enfeoffments  whereof 
he  was  only  collaterally  seized,  &c. 

I  had  another  favour  to  beg,  which  is  the 
beggarliest  of  beggings. 

A  few  lines  of  verse  for  a  young  friend's  album 
152 


(six  will  be  enough).  M.  Burney  will  tell  you 
who  she  is  I  want  'em  for.    A  girl  of  gold.    Six 

lines  —  make  'em  eight — signed  Barry  C . 

They  need  not  be  very  good,  as  I  chiefly  want 
'em  as  a  foil  to  mine.  But  I  shall  be  seriously 
obliged  by  any  refuse  scrap.  We  are  in  the  last 
ages  of  the  world,  when  St.  Paul  prophesied 
that  women  should  be  "  headstrong,  lovers  of 
their  own  wills,  having  albums."  I  fled  hither  to 
escape  the  albumean  persecution,  and  had  not 
been  in  my  new  house  twenty-four  hours,  when 
the  daughter  of  the  next  house  came  in  with 
a  friend's  album  to  beg  a  contribution,  and 
the  following  day  intimated  she  had  one  of  her 
own.  Two  more  have  sprung  up  since.  If 
I  take  the  wings  of  the  morning  and  fly  unto 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  there  will 
albums  be.  New  Holland  has  albums.  But  the 
age  is  to  be  complied  with.  M.  B.  will  tell 
you  the  sort  of  girl  I  request  the  ten  lines  for. 
Somewhat  of  a  pensive  cast,  what  you  admire. 
The  lines  may  come  before  the  law  question,  as 
that  cannot  be  determined  before  Hilary  Term, 
and  I  wish  your  deliberate  judgment  on  that. 
The  other  may  be  flimsy  and  superficial.  And 
if  you  have  not  burnt  your  returned  letter,  pray 
re-send  it  to  me,  as  a  monumental  token  of  my 
stupidity.  'T  was  a  little  unthinking  of  you  to 
touch  upon  a  sore  subject.  Why,  by  dabbling  in 
those  accursed  albums,  I  have  become  a  byword 
of  infamy  all  over  the  kingdom.  I  have  sicken'd 

153 


decent  women  for  asking  me  to  write  in  albums. 
There  be  "dark  jests"  abroad,  Master  Cornwall; 
and  some  riddles  may  live  to  be  clear'd  up.  And 
't  is  not  every  saddle  is  put  on  the  right  steed ; 
and  forgeries  and  false  Gospels  are  not  peculiar 
to  the  age  following  the  Apostles.  And  some 
tubs  don't  stand  on  their  right  bottoms.  Which 
is  all  I  wish  to  say  in  these  ticklish  times  —  and 
so  your  servant,  Chs.  Lamb 

note 

[At  the  end  of  the  first  paragraph  the  words  "/'«  usum 
enfeoffments  whereof  he  was  only  collaterally  seized,  &c,"  are 
in  another  hand.  Lamb  wrote  beneath  them  :  "  The  above  is 
some  of  M.  Burney's  memoranda  which  he  has  left  me,  and 
you  may  cut  out  and  give  him."  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DLXXXVIII.  — TO   B.  W.    PROCTER 

January  22,  1829. 

Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  verses.  Take 
'em  coolly  as  they  come.  Any  day  between  this 
and  midsummer  will  do.  Ten  lines  the  extreme. 
There  is  no  mystery  in  my  incognita.  She  has 
often  seen  you,  though  you  may  not  have  ob- 
served a  silent  brown  girl,  who  for  the  last 
twelve  years  has  run  wild  about  our  house  in 
her  Christmas  holidays.  She  is  Italian  by  name 
and  extraction.  Ten  lines  about  the  blue  sky  of 
her  country  will  do,  as  it's  her  foible  to  be 
proud  of  it.  But  they  must  not  be  over-courtly 
or  lady-fied,  as  she  is  with  a  lady  who  says  to 

154 


her  "  go  and  she  goeth ;  come  and  she  cometh." 
Item,  I  have  made  her  a  tolerable  Latinist.  The 
verses  should  be  moral  too,  as  for  a  clergyman's 
family.    She  is  called  Emma  Isola. 

I  approve  heartily  of  your  turning  your  four 
volumes  into  a  lesser  compass.  'Twill  Sybillise 
the  gold  left.  I  shall,  I  think,  be  in  town  in 
a  few  weeks,  when  I  will  assuredly  see  you.  I  will 
put  in  here  loves  to  Mrs.  Procter  and  the  Anti- 
Capulets,  because  Mary  tells  me  I  omitted  them 
in  my  last.  I  like  to  see  my  friends  here.  I  have 
put  my  lawsuit  into  the  hands  of  an  Enfield 
practitioner  —  a  plain  man,  who  seems  perfectly 
to  understand  it,  and  gives  me  hopes  of  a  favour- 
able result. 

Rumour  tells  us  that  Miss  Holcroft  is  mar- 
ried ;  though  the  varlet  has  not  had  the  grace 
to  make  any  communication  to  us  on  the 
subject.  Who  is  Badman,  or  Bed'em  ?  Have 
I  seen  him  at  Montacute's  ?  I  hear  he  is  a  great 
chymist.  I  am  sometimes  chymical  myself. 
A  thought  strikes  me  with  horror.  Pray  heaven 
he  may  not  have  done  it  for  the  sake  of  trying 
chymical  experiments  upon  her,  —  young  female 
subjects  are  so  scarce !  Louisa  would  make  a 
capital  shot.  An't  you  glad  about  Burke's  case? 
We  may  set  off  the  Scotch  murders  against  the 
Scotch  novels  —  Hare,  the  Great  Un-hanged. 

Martin  Burney  is  richly  worth  your  knowing. 
He  is  on  the  top  scale  of  my  friendship  ladder, 
on  which  an  angel  or  two  is  still  climbing,  and 

l55 


some,  alas  !  descending.  I  am  out  of  the  literary 
world  at  present.  Pray,  is  there  anything  new 
from  the  admired  pen  of  the  author  of  the 
Pleasures  of  Hope?  Has  Mrs.  He-mans  (double 
masculine)  done  anything  pretty  lately  ?  Why 
sleeps  the  lyre  of  Hervey,  and  of  Alaric  Watts  ? 
Is  the  muse  of  L.  E.  L.  silent  ?  Did  you  see 
a  sonnet  of  mine  in  Blackwood's  last  ?  Curious 
construction!  Elaborata  facilitas  !  And  now  I'll 
tell.  'Twas  written  for  the  Gem;  but  the  ed- 
itors declined  it,  on  the  plea  that  it  would  shock 
all  mothers ;  so  they  published  the  Widow  instead. 
I  am  born  out  of  time.  I  have  no  conjecture 
about  what  the  present  world  calls  delicacy.  I 
thought  Rosamund  Gray  was  a  pretty  modest 
thing.  Hessey  assures  me  that  the  world  would 
not  bear  it.  I  have  lived  to  grow  into  an  inde- 
cent character.  When  my  sonnet  was  rejected, 
I  exclaimed,  "  Damn  the  age ;  I  will  write  for 
antiquity!"  Erratum  in  sonnet:  Last  line  but 
something,  for  tender,  read  tend.  The  Scotch  do 
not  know  our  law  terms;  but  I  find  some  remains 
of  honest,  plain,  old  writing  lurking  there  still. 
They  were  not  so  mealy-mouthed  as  to  refuse 
my  verses.    Maybe,  't  is  their  oatmeal. 

Blackwood  sent  me  jCio  for  the  drama. 
Somebody  cheated  me  out  of  it  next  day ;  and 
my  new  pair  of  breeches,  just  sent  home,  crack- 
ing at  first  putting  on,  I  exclaimed,  in  my  wrath, 
"  All  tailors  are  cheats,  and  all  men  are  tailors." 
Then  I  was  better.    [Balance  of  letter  lost.] 

156 


DLXXXIX.  — TO  B.  W.  PROCTER 

1829. 

And  now,  Procter,  I  will  tell  you  a  story. 
Hierocles,  the  Sicilian  Tyrant,  who  lived  in  the 
thirtieth  Olympiad,  just  seven  hundred  and  sixty 
years  ante  a.d.,  by  the  Gregorian  Computation, 
having  won  the  Prize  in  a  Race  of  Mules,  be- 
sought the  Poet  Simonides,  with  the  incentive 
moreover  of  a  donative  of  1 200  Sesterces,  which 
might  be  about  ^12.7.3^  of  our  money,  to 
write  him  an  Olympic  Hymn  in  praise  of  the 
mules.  But  Simonides,  declining  to  vulgarise  his 
Muse  with  the  mention  of  any  such  mongrels, 
the  Tyrant  (which  signifies  in  the  Greek  of  that 
age  only  king)  rounds  him  in  the  ear  that  he 
shall  have  8000  sesterces  if  he  will  touch  up  his 
beasts  handsomely.  Whereupon  Simonides  — 
the  "  tender  Simonides,"  as  antiquity  delights  to 
phrase  him — began  to  relent,  and  stringing  his 
golden  lyre  begins  a  lofty  ode  to  the  cattle  with  — 

Hail !  daughters  of  the  swift-winged  steed. 

Sinking,  you  see,  one  part  of  their  genealogy. 
Now  for  the  application.  What  I  told  you,  dear 
Procter,  about  my  young  friend  was  nothing  but 
the  exact  truth.  But  I  sunk  the  circumstance 
that  her  mother  was  a  negro,  or  half-caste  — 
which  convinces  me,  what  I  always  thought,  that 
something  of  the  tender  genius  of  Simonides  lives 
again  in  my  strains.    Mary  corrects  me,  and  will 

157 


have  it  that  the  lady's  mother  was  a  Hindostanee 
half-caste,  and  no  negress,  but  was  I  to  send  you 
wool-gathering  over  the  vast  plains  watered  by 
the  Ganges,  or  the  more  bewildering  wilds  of 
Timbuctoo,  to  search  for  images  ? ' 

DXC  — TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

January  28,  1829. 

Dear  Allsop,  —  Old  Star  is  setting.  Take  him 
and  cut  him  into  Little  Stars.  Nevertheless  the 
extinction  of  the  greater  light  is  not  by  the  lesser 
light  (Stella,  or  Mrs.  Star)  apprehended  so  nigh, 
but  that  she  will  be  thankful  if  you  can  let  young 
Scintillation  (Master  Star)  twinkle  down  by  the 
coach  on  Sunday,  to  catch  the  last  glimmer  of 
the  decaying  parental  light.  No  news  is  good 
news ;  so  we  conclude  Mrs.  A.  and  little  a  are 
doing  well.    Our  kindest  loves,  C.  L. 

DXCI.  — TO    B.  W.   PROCTER 

January  29,  1829. 

When  Miss  Ouldcroft  (who  is  now  Mrs.  Bed- 
dam,  and  Bed — damn'd  to  her  !)  was  at  Enfield, 
which  she  was  in  summer-time,  and  owed  her 
health  to  its  sun  and  genial  influences,  she  visited 
(with    young    lady-like   impertinence)    a    poor 

p  In  this  extract  Lamb,  who  was  himself  always  writing  verses  for 
his  young  friends'  albums,  wanted  Procter  to  do  likewise  for  Emma 
Isola,  in  whose  veins  was  a  tinge  of  blood  darker  than  European.  — 
Alfred  Ainger.] 

158 


man's  cottage  that  had  a  pretty  baby  (O  the 
yearnling  !),  and  gave  it  fine  caps  and  sweet- 
meats. On  a  day,  broke  into  the  parlour  our 
two  maids  uproarious.  "  O  ma'am,  who  do  you 
think  Miss  Ouldcroft  (they  pronounce  it  Hol- 
croft)  has  been  working  a  cap  for  ?"  "  A  child," 
answered  Mary,  in  true  Shandean  female  sim- 
plicity. "  It 's  the  man's  child  as  was  taken  up 
for  sheep-stealing."  Miss  Ouldcroft  was  stag- 
gered, and  would  have  cut  the  connection ;  but 
by  main  force  I  made  her  go  and  take  her  leave 
of  her  protegee  (which  I  only  spell  with  a  g  be- 
cause I  can't  make  a  pretty  y).  I  thought,  if  she 
went  no  more,  the  Abactor  or  Abactor's  wife 
(vide  Ainsworth)  would  suppose  she  had  heard 
something ;  and  I  have  delicacy  for  a  sheep- 
stealer.  The  overseers  actually  overhauled  a  mut- 
ton-pie at  the  baker's  (his  first,  last,  and  only 
hope  of  mutton-pie),  which  he  never  came  to 
eat,  and  thence  inferred  his  guilt. 

Per  occasionem  cuius  I  framed  the  sonnet ;  ob- 
serve its  elaborate  construction.  I  was  four  days 
about  it. 

THE  GYPSY'S  MALISON 

Suck,  baby,  suck,  mother's  love  grows  by  giving, 

Drain  the  sweet  founts  that  only  thrive  by  wasting; 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  riotous  guilty  living 

Hands  thee  the  cup  that  shall  be  death  in  tasting. 
Kiss,  baby,  kiss,  mother's  lips  shine  by  kisses, 

Choke  the  warm  breath  that  else  would  fall  in  blessings; 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  turbulent  guilty  blisses 

Tend  thee  the  kiss  that  poisons  'mid  caressings. 

lS9 


Hang,  baby,  hang,  mother's  love  loves  such  forces, 
Choke  the  fond  neck  that  bends  still  to  thy  clinging ; 

Black  manhood  comes,  when  violent  lawless  courses 
Leave  thee  a  spectacle  in  rude  air  swinging. 

So  sang  a  wither'd  sibyl  energetical, 

And  bann'd  the  ungiving  door  with  lips  prophetical. 

Barry,  study  that  sonnet.  It  is  curiously  and  per- 
versely elaborate.  'T  is  a  choking  subject,  and 
therefore  the  reader  is  directed  to  the  structure 
of  it.  See  you?  and  was  this  a  fourteener  to  be 
rejected  by  a  trumpery  annual?  forsooth,  't  would 
shock  all  mothers ;  and  may  all  mothers,  who 
would  so  be  shocked,  bed  dom'd  !  as  if  mothers 
were  such  sort  of  logicians  as  to  infer  the  future 
hanging  of  their  child  from  the  theoretical  hang- 
ibility  (or  capacity  of  being  hanged,  if  the  judge 
pleases)  of  every  infant  born  with  a  neck  on. 
Oh  B.  C,  my  whole  heart  is  faint,  and  my  whole 
head  is  sick  (how  is  it?)  at  this  damned,  cant- 
ing, unmasculine  unbxwdy  (I  had  almost  said) 
age  !  Don't  show  this  to  your  child's  mother  or 
I  shall  be  Orpheusized,  scattered  into  Hebras. 
Damn  the  King,  lords,  commons,  and  specially 
(as  I  said  on  Muswell  Hill  on  a  Sunday  when 
I  could  get  no  beer  a  quarter  before  one)  all 
bishops,  priests,  and  curates.    Vale. 

DXCIL  — TO    B.   W.    PROCTER 

Early  1829. 

The  comings  in  of  an  incipient  conveyancer 
160 


are  not  adequate  to  the  receipt  of  three  two- 
penny-post non-paids  in  a  week.  Therefore,  after 
this,  I  condemn  my  stub  to  long  and  deep  silence, 
or  shall  awaken  it  to  write  to  lords.  Lest  those 
raptures  in  this  honeymoon  of  my  correspond- 
ence, which  you  avow  for  the  gentle  person  of 
my  Nuncio,  after  passing  through  certain  natural 
grades,  as  Love,  Love  and  Water,  Love  with  the 
chill  off,  then  subsiding  to  that  point  which  the 
heroic  suitor  of  his  wedded  dame,  the  noble- 
spirited  Lord  Randolph  in  the  play,  declares  to 
be  the  ambition  of  his  passion,  a  reciprocation 
of  "  complacent  kindness,"  —  should  suddenly 
plump  down  (scarce  staying  to  bait  at  the  mid 
point  of  indifference,  so  hungry  it  is  for  distaste) 
to  a  loathing  and  blank  aversion,  to  the  render- 
ing probable  such  counter  expressions  as  this,  — 
"  Damn  that  infernal  twopenny  postman"  (words 
which  make  the  not  yet  glutted  inamorato  "  lift 
up  his  hands  and  wonder  who  can  use  them"). 
While,  then,  you  are  not  ruined,  let  me  assure 
thee,  O  thou  above  the  painter,  and  next  only 
under  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  most  immortal 
and  worthy  to  be  immortal  Barry,  thy  most 
ingenious  and  golden  cadences  do  take  my  fancy 
mightily.  They  are  at  this  identical  moment 
under  the  snip  and  the  paste  of  the  fairest  hands 
(bating  chilblains)  in  Cambridge,  soon  to  be 
transplanted  to  Suffolk,  to  the  envy  of  half  of  the 
young  ladies  in  Bury. 

But  tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly,  gentle  swain, 
161 


is  that  Isola  Bella  a  true  spot  in  geographical 
denomination,  or  a  floating  Delos  in  thy  brain  ? 
Lurks  that  fair  island  in  verity  in  the  bosom  of 
Lake  Maggiore,  or  some  other  with  less  poetic 
name,  which  thou  hast  Cornwallized  for  the 
occasion  ?  And  what  if  Maggiore  itself  be  but  a 
coinage  of  adaptation  ?  Of  this,  pray  resolve  me 
immediately,  for  my  albumess  will  be  catechised 
on  this  subject ;  and  how  can  I  prompt  her  ? 
Lake  Leman,  I  know,  and  Lemon  Lake  (in  a 
punch  bowl)  I  have  swum  in,  though  those 
lymphs  be  long  since  dry.  But  Maggiore  may  be 
in  the  moon.  Unsphinx  this  riddle  for  me,  for 
my  shelves  have  no  gazetteer.  And  mayest  thou 
never  murder  thy  father-in-law  in  the  Trivia  of 
Lincoln's  Inn  New  Square  Passage,  where  Searl 
Street  and  the  Street  of  Portugal  embrace,  nor 
afterwards  make  absurd  proposals  to  the  Widow 
M.  But  I  know  you  abhor  any  such  notions. 
Nevertheless  so  did  O-Edipus  (as  Admiral  Bur- 
ney  used  to  call  him,  splitting  the  diphthong  in 
spite  or  ignorance)  for  that  matter.         C.  L. 

DXCIII.  — TO    B.    W.    PROCTER 

February  2,  1829. 

Facundissime  Poeta !  quanquam  istiusmodi 
epitheta  oratoribus  potius  quam  poetis  attinere 
facile  scio — tamen,  facundissime! 

Commoratur  nobiscum  iamdiu,  in  agro  En- 
feldiense,  scilicet,  leguleius  futurus,  illustrissimus 

162 


Martinus  Burneius,  otium  agens,  negotia  nomi- 
nalia,  et  officinam  clientum  vacuam,  paululum 
fugiens.  Orat,  implorat  te — nempe,  Martinus — 
ut  si  (quod  Dii  faciant)  forte  fortuna,  absente 
ipso,  advenerit  tardus  cliens,  eum  certiorem  feceris 
per  literas  hue  missas.  Intelligisne?  an  me  An- 
glice  et  barbarice  ad  te  hominem  perdoctum 
scribere  oportet  ? 

Si  status  de  franco  tenemento  datur  avo,  et  in 
eodem  facto  si  mediate  vel  immediate  datur 
haeredibus  vel  haeredibus  corporis  dicti  avi,  postrema 
haec  verba  sunt  Limitationis,  non  Perquisitionis. 

Dixi.  Carlagnulus 

note 

[Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn  has  made  the  following  translation : 

Most  eloquent  Poet :  though  I  know  well  such  epithet  befits  orators 
rather  than  poets  —  and  yet,  most  eloquent  ! 

There  has  been  staying  with  us  this  while  past  at  our  country  seat  of 
Enfield,  to  wit,  the  future  attorney,  the  illustrious  Martin  Burney,  taking 
his  leisure,  flying  for  a  space  from  his  nominal  occupations,  and  his  office 
empty  of  clients.  He  —  that  is,  Martin  —  begs  and  entreats  of  you  that 
if  (heaven  send  it  so  !)  by  some  stroke  of  fortune,  in  his  absence  there 
should  arrive  a  belated  client,  you  would  inform  him  by  letter  here.  Do 
you  understand  ?  or  must  I  write  in  barbarous  English  to  a  scholar  like 
you  ? 

If  an  estate  in  freehold  is  given  to  an  ancestor,  and  if  in  the  same  deed 
directly  or  indirectly  the  gift  is  made  to  the  heir  or  heirs  of  the  body  of 
the  said  ancestor,  these  last  words  have  the  force  of  Limitation  not  of 
Purchase. 

I  have  spoken.  Charles  Lamb.  ] 

DXCIV.— TO  HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON 

February  27,  1829. 

Dear  R., — Expectation  was  alert  on  the  receit 
163 


of  your  strange-shaped  present,  while  yet  undis- 
closed from  its  fuse  envelope.  Some  said,  'tis 
a  viol  da  Gamba,  others  pronounced  it  a  fiddle.  I 
myself  hoped  it  a  liquer  case  pregnant  with  eau 
de  vie  and  such  odd  nectar.  When  midwifed 
into  daylight,  the  gossips  were  at  loss  to  pro- 
nounce upon  its  species.  Most  took  it  for  a 
marrow  spoon,  an  apple  scoop,  a  banker's  guinea 
shovel.  At  length  its  true  scope  appeared,  its 
drift  —  to  save  the  backbone  of  my  sister  stoop- 
ing to  scuttles.  A  philanthropic  intent,  borrowed 
no  doubt  from  some  of  the  colliers.  You  save 
people's  backs  one  way,  and  break  'em  again  by 
loads  of  obligation.  The  spectacles  are  delicate 
and  Vulcanian.  No  lighter  texture  than  their 
steel  did  the  cuckoldy  blacksmith  frame  to  catch 
Mrs.  Vulcan  and  the  Captain  in.  For  ungalled 
forehead,  as  for  back  unbursten,  you  have  Mary's 
thanks.  Marry,  for  my  own  peculium  of  obliga- 
tion, 't  was  supererogatory.  A  second  part  of 
Pamela  was  enough  in  conscience.  Two  Pa- 
melas in  a  house  is  too  much  without  two  Mr. 
B.'s  to  reward  'em. 

Mary,  who  is  handselling  her  new  aerial 
perspectives  upon  a  pair  of  old  worsted  stock- 
ings trod  out  in  Cheshunt  lanes,  sends  love :  I, 
great  good  liking.  Bid  us  a  personal  farewell 
before  you  see  the  Vatican. 

Chas.  Lamb 


164 


DXCV.  — TO  SAMUEL   ROGERS 

March  22,  1829. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  have  but  lately  learned,  by 
letter  from  Mr.  Moxon,  the  death  of  your  bro- 
ther. For  the  little  I  had  seen  of  him,  I  greatly 
respected  him.  I  do  not  even  know  how  recent 
your  loss  may  have  been,  and  hope  that  I  do 
not  unseasonably  present  you  with  a  few  lines 
suggested  to  me  this  morning  by  the  thought 
of  him.  I  beg  to  be  most  kindly  remembered 
to  your  remaining  brother,  and  to  Miss  Rogers. 
Yours  truly,  Charles  Lamb 

Rogers,  of  all  the  men  that  I  have  known 

But  slightly,  who  have  died,  your  brother's  loss 

Touched  me  most  sensibly.   There  came  across 

My  mind  an  image  of  the  cordial  tone 

Of  your  fraternal  meetings,  where  a  guest 

I  more  than  once  have  sate ;  and  grieve  to  think, 

That  of  that  threefold  cord  one  precious  link 

By  Death's  rude  hand  is  sever'd  from  the  rest. 

Of  our  old  gentry  he  appear'd  a  stem; 

A  magistrate  who,  while  the  evil-doer 

He  kept  in  terror,  could  respect  the  poor, 

And  not  for  every  trifle  harass  them  — 

As  some,  divine  and  laic,  too  oft  do. 

This  man's  a  private  loss  and  public  too. 

DXCVL  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

March  25,  1829. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  send  you  by  desire  Darley's 
very  poetical  poem.    You  will  like,  I  think,  the 

165 


novel  headings  of  each  scene.  Scenical  direc- 
tions in  verse  are  novelties.  With  it  I  send  a  few 
duplicates,  which  are  therefore  no  value  to  me, 
and  may  amuse  an  idle  hour.  Read  Christmas, 
'tis  the  production  of  a  young  author,  who  reads 
all  your  writings.  A  good  word  from  you  about 
his  little  book  would  be  as  balm  to  him.  It  has 
no  pretensions,  and  makes  none.  But  parts  are 
pretty.  In  Field 's  Appendix  turn  to  a  poem  called 
the  Kangaroo.  It  is  in  the  best  way  of  our  old 
poets,  if  I  mistake  not.  I  have  just  come  from 
town,  where  I  have  been  to  get  my  bit  of  quar- 
terly pension.  And  have  brought  home,  from 
stalls  in  Barbican,  the  old  Pilgrim's  Progress  with 
the  prints  —  Vanity  Fair,  &c.  —  now  scarce. 
Four  shillings.  Cheap.  And  also  one  of  whom 
I  have  oft  heard  and  had  dreams,  but  never  saw 
in  the  flesh  —  that  is,  in  sheepskin  —  the  whole 
theologic  works  of — 

Thomas  Aquinas  ! 

My  arms  aked  with  lugging  it  a  mile  to  the 
stage,  but  the  burden  was  a  pleasure,  such  as  old 
Anchises  was  to  the  shoulders  of  ./Eneas  —  or 
the  Lady  to  the  Lover  in  old  romance,  who  hav- 
ing to  carry  her  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain 
—  the  price  of  obtaining  her  —  clamber'd  with 
her  to  the  top,  and  fell  dead  with  fatigue. 

O  the  glorious  old  Schoolmen  ! 

There  must  be  something  in  him.  Such  great 
names  imply  greatness.    Who  hath  seen  Michael 

1 66 


Angelo's  things  —  of  us  that  never  pilgrimaged 
to  Rome  —  and  yet  which  of  us  disbelieves  his 
greatness.  How  I  will  revel  in  his  cobwebs  and 
subtleties,  till  my  brain  spins  ! 

N.  B.  I  have  writ  in  the  old  Hamlet,  offer  it 
to  Mitford  in  my  name,  if  he  have  not  seen  it. 
'T  is  woefully  below  our  editions  of  it.  But  keep 
it,  if  you  like.    (What  is  M.  to  me?) 

I  do  not  mean  this  to  go  for  a  letter,  only  to  ap- 
prize y  ou,  that  the  parcel  is  booked  for  you  this  2  5 
March,  1829,  from  the  Four  Swans  Bishopsgate. 

With  both  our  loves  to  Lucy  and  A.  K. 

Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

DXCVII.  — TO   MISS  SARAH   JAMES 

April,  1829. 

We  have  just  got  your  letter.  I  think  Mother 
Reynolds  will  go  on  quietly,  Mrs.  Scrimpshaw 
having  kittened.  The  name  of  the  late  Laureat 
was  Henry  James  Pye,  and  when  his  first  Birth- 
day Ode  came  out,  which  was  very  poor,  some- 
body being  asked  his  opinion  of  it,  said, — 

And  when  the  Pye  was  open'd 

The  birds  began  to  sing, 
And  was  not  this  a  dainty  dish 

To  set  before  the  King ! 

Pye  was  brother  to  old  Major  Pye,  and  father 
to  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  uncle  to  a  General  Pye,  all 
friends  of  Miss  Kelly.  Pye  succeeded  Thos. 
Warton,  Warton  succeeded  Wm.  Whitehead, 

167 


Whitehead  succeeded  Colley  Cibber,  Cibber 
succeeded  Eusden,  Eusden  succeeded  Thos. 
Shadwell,  Shadwell  succeeded  Dryden,  Dryden 
succeeded  Davenant,  Davenant  God  knows 
whom.  There  never  was  a  Rogers  a  Poet  Lau- 
reat ;  there  is  an  old  living  poet  of  that  name, 
a  banker  as  you  know,  author  of  the  Pleasures 
of  Memory,  where  Moxon  goes  to  breakfast  in 
a  fine  house  in  the  Green  Park,  but  he  was  never 
Laureat.  Southey  is  the  present  one,  and  for 
anything  I  know  or  care,  Moxon  may  succeed 
him.  We  have  a  copy  of  Xmas  for  you,  so  you 
may  give  your  own  to  Mary  as  soon  as  you 
please.  We  think  you  need  not  have  exhibited 
your  mountain  shyness  before  M.  B.  He  is 
neither  shy  himself,  nor  patronizes  it  in  others. 
So  with  many  thanks,  good-bye.  Emma  comes 
on  Thursday.  C.  L. 

The  Poet  Laureat,  whom  Davenant  suc- 
ceeded was  Rare  Ben  Jonson,  who  I  believe 
was  the  first  regular  Laureat  with  the  appoint- 
ment of  ^ioo  a  year  and  a  Butt  of  Sack  or 
Canary  —  so  add  that  to  my  little  list.  —  C.  L. 

DXCVIII.  — TO  HENRY  C.  ROBINSON 

April  10,  1829. 

Dear  Robinson,  —  We  are  afraid  you  will  slip 
from  us  from  England  without  again  seeing  us. 
It  would  be  charity  to  come  and  see  me.    I  have 

168 


these  three  days  been  laid  up  with  strong  rheu- 
matic pains,  in  loins,  back,  shoulders.  I  shriek 
sometimes  from  the  violence  of  them.  I  get  scarce 
any  sleep,  and  the  consequence  is,  I  am  restless, 
and  want  to  change  sides  as  I  lie,  and  I  cannot 
turn  without  resting  on  my  hands,  and  so  turning 
all  my  body  all  at  once  like  a  log  with  a  lever. 
While  this  rainy  weather  lasts,  I  have  no  hope 
of  alleviation.  I  have  tried  flannels  and  embro- 
cation in  vain.  Just  at  the  hip-joint  the  pangs 
sometimes  are  so  excruciating  that  I  cry  out.  It 
is  as  violent  as  the  cramp,  and  far  more  continu- 
ous. I  am  ashamed  to  whine  about  these  com- 
plaints to  you,  who  can  ill  enter  into  them.  But 
indeed  they  are  sharp.  You  go  about,  in  rain  or 
fine  at  all  hours  without  discommodity.  I  envy 
you  your  immunity  at  a  time  of  life  not  much 
removed  from  my  own.  But  you  owe  your  ex- 
emption to  temperance,  which  it  is  too  late  for 
me  to  pursue.  I  in  my  life  time  have  had  my 
good  things.  Hence  my  frame  is  brittle — yours 
strong  as  brass.  I  never  knew  any  ailment  you 
had.  You  can  go  out  at  night  in  all  weathers, 
sit  up  all  hours.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  moralise. 
I  only  wish  to  say  that  if  you  are  enclined  to  a 
game  at  Doubly  Dumby,  I  would  try  and  bolster 
up  myself  in  a  chair  for  a  rubber  or  so.  My  days 
are  tedious,  but  less  so  and  less  painful  than  my 
nights.  May  you  never  know  the  pain  and  diffi- 
culty I  have  in  writing  so  much.  Mary,  who  is 
most  kind,  joins  in  the  wish.  C.  Lamb 

169 


DXCIX.  — TO   HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON 

April  17,  1829. 

I  do  confess  to  mischief.  It  was  the  subtlest 
diabolical  piece  of  malice  heart  of  man  has  con- 
trived. I  have  no  more  rheumatism  than  that 
poker.  Never  was  freer  from  all  pains  and  aches. 
Every  joint  sound,  to  the  tip  of  the  ear  from  the 
extremity  of  the  lesser  toe.  The  report  of  thy 
torments  was  blown  circuitously  here  from 
Bury.  I  could  not  resist  the  jeer.  I  conceived 
you  writhing,  when  you  should  just  receive  my 
congratulations.  How  mad  you'd  be!  Well, 
it  is  not  in  my  method  to  inflict  pangs.  I  leave 
that  to  heaven.  But  in  the  existing  pangs  of  a 
friend,  I  have  a  share.  His  disquietude  crowns 
my  exemption.  I  imagine  you  howling,  and 
pace  across  the  room,  shooting  out  my  free  arms, 
legs,  &c.  [here  Lamb  makes  four  slanting  marks 
resembling  shorthand],  this  way  and  that  way, 
with  an  assurance  of  not  kindling  a  spark  of  pain 
from  them.  I  deny  that  Nature  meant  us  to 
sympathise  with  agonies.  Those  face-contortions, 
retortions,  distortions,  have  the  merriness  of 
antics.  Nature  meant  them  for  farce  —  not  so 
pleasant  to  the  actor  indeed,  but  Grimaldi  cries 
when  we  laugh,  and  'tis  but  one  that  suffers  to 
make  thousands  rejoyce. 

You  say  that  shampooing  is  ineffectual.  But 
per  se  it  is  good,  to  show  the  introvolutions, 
extravolutions,  of  which   the  animal   frame  is 

170 


capable.     To  show  what  the  creature  is  recept- 
ible  of,  short  of  dissolution. 

You  are  worst  of  nights,  a'nt  you  ? 

'T  will  be  as  good  as  a  sermon  to  you  to  lie 
abed  all  this  night,  and  meditate  the  subject  of 
the  day.   'T  is  Good  Friday.    How  appropriate  ! 

Think  when  but  your  little  finger  pains  you, 
what  ******  endured  to  whitewash  you  and 
the  rest  of  us. 

Nobody  will  be  the  more  justified  for  your 
endurance.  You  won't  save  the  soul  of  a  mouse. 
'T  is  a  pure  selfish  pleasure. 

You  never  was  rack'd,  was  you  ?  I  should  like 
an  authentic  map  of  those  feelings. 

You  seem  to  have  the  flying  gout. 

You  can  scarcely  scrue  a  smile  out  of  your 
face  —  can  you  ?  I  sit  at  immunity,  and  sneer 
ad  libitum. 

'T  is  now  the  time  for  you  to  make  good  reso- 
lutions. I  may  go  on  breaking  'em,  for  anything 
the  worse  I  find  myself. 

Your  doctor  seems  to  keep  you  on  the  long 
cure.    Precipitate  healings  are  never  good. 

Don't  come  while  you  are  so  bad.  I  shan't 
be  able  to  attend  to  your  throes  and  the  dumbee 
at  once. 

I  should  like  to  know  how  slowly  the  pain 
goes  off.  But  don't  write,  unless  the  motion  will 
be  likely  to  make  your  sensibility  more  exquisite. 

Your  affectionate  and  truly  healthy  friend, 

C.  Lamb 
171 


Mary  thought  a  letter  from  me  might  amuse 
you  in  your  torment. 

DC  — TO   GEORGE   DYER 

April  29,  1829. 

Dear  Dyer,  —  As  well  as  a  bad  pen  can  do  it, 
I  must  thank  you  for  your  friendly  attention  to 
the  wishes  of  our  young  friend  Emma,  who  was 
packing  up  for  Bury  when  your  sonnet  arrived, 
and  was  too  hurried  to  express  her  sense  of  its 
merits.  I  know  she  will  treasure  up  that  and 
your  second  communication  among  her  choicest 
rarities,  as  from  her  grandfather's  friend,  whom 
not  having  seen,  she  loves  to  hear  talked  of;  the 
second  letter  shall  be  sent  after  her,  with  our  first 
parcel  to  Suffolk,  where  she  is,  to  us,  alas !  dead 
and  Bury'd :  we  sorely  miss  her.  Should  you  at 
any  hour  think  of  four  or  six  lines  to  send  her, 
addressed  to  herself  simply,  naming  her  grand- 
sire,  and  to  wish  she  may  pass  through  life  as 
much  respected,  with  your  own  "G.  Dyer"  at 
the  end,  she  would  feel  rich  indeed,  for  the 
nature  of  an  album  asks  for  verses  that  have  not 
been  in  print  before;  but  this  quite  at  your  con- 
venience :  and  to  be  less  trouble  to  yourself,  four 
lines  would  be  sufficient.  Enfield  is  come  out  in 
summer  beauty.  Come  when  you  will,  and  we 
will  give  you  a  bed;  Emma  has  left  hers,  you 
know.  I  remain,  my  dear  Dyer,  your  affectionate 
friend,  Charles  Lamb 

172 


DCL  —  TO  THOMAS  HOOD 

May,  1829. 

Dear  Hood, — We  will  look  out  for  you  on 
Wednesday,  be  sure,  tho'  we  have  not  eyes  like 
Emma,  who,  when  I  made  her  sit  with  her  back 
to  the  window  to  keep  her  to  her  Latin,  literally 
saw  round  backwards  every  one  that  past,  and, 
O,  [that]  she  were  here  to  jump  up  and  shriek 
out,  "  There  are  the  Hoods ! "  We  have  had  two 
pretty  letters  from  her,  which  I  long  to  show 
you  —  together  with  Enfield  in  her  May  beauty. 

Loves  to  Jane. 

\  Here  follow  rough  caricatures  of  Charles  and  his 
sister,  and\  "  I  can't  draw  no  better." 

DCIL  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

Calamy  is  good  reading.  Mary  is  always  thank- 
ful for  books  in  her  way.  I  won't  trouble  you 
for  any  in  my  way  yet,  having  enough  to  read. 
Young  Hazlitt  lives,  at  least  his  father  does,  at  3 
or  36  [36  I  have  it  down,  with  the  6  scratch' d 
out]  Bouverie  Street,  Fleet  Street.  If  not  to  be 
found,  his  mother's  address  is,  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  Mrs. 
Tomlinson's,  Potters  Bar.  At  one  or  other  he 
must  be  heard  of. 

We  shall  expect  you  with  the  full  moon. 
Meantime,  our  thanks.  C.  L. 

We  go  on  very  quietly,  &c. 
173 


DCIII.  — TO   WALTER    WILSON 

May  28,  1829. 

Dear  W.,  —  Introduce  this,  or  omit  it,  as  you 
like.  I  think  I  wrote  better  about  it  in  a  letter 
to  you  from  India  House.  If  you  have  that,  per- 
haps out  of  the  two  I  could  patch  up  a  better 
thing,  if  you  'd  return  both.  But  I  am  very 
poorly,  and  have  been  harassed  with  an  illness  of 
my  sister's. 

The  Ode  was  printed  in  the  New  Times  nearly 
the  end  of  1825,  and  I  have  only  omitted  some 
silly  lines.    Call  it  a  corrected  copy. 

Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb 

Put  my  name  to  either  or  both,  as  you  like. 

DCIV.  —  TO   BERNARD    BARTON 

June  3,  1829. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  I  am  very  much  grieved  in- 
deed for  the  indisposition  of  poor  Lucy.  Your 
letter  found  me  in  domestic  troubles.  My  sister 
is  again  taken  ill,  and  I  am  obliged  to  remove 
her  out  of  the  house  for  many  weeks,  I  fear, 
before  I  can  hope  to  have  her  again.  I  have 
been  very  desolate  indeed.  My  loneliness  is  a 
little  abated  by  our  young  friend  Emma  having 
just  come  here  for  her  holydays,  and  a  school- 
fellow of  hers  that  was,  with  her.  Still  the 
house  is  not  the   same,   tho'  she  is  the  same. 

*74 


Mary  had  been  pleasing  herself  with  the  pro- 
spect of  seeing  her  at  this  time ;  and  with  all 
their  company,  the  house  feels  at  times  a  fright- 
ful solitude.  May  you  and  I  in  no  very  long 
time  have  a  more  cheerful  theme  to  write  about, 
and  congratulate  upon  a  daughter's  and  a  sister's 
perfect  recovery.  Do  not  be  long  without  tell- 
ing me  how  Lucy  goes  on.  I  have  a  right  to 
call  her  by  her  quaker-name,  you  know. 

Emma  knows  that  I  am  writing  to  you,  and 
begs  to  be  remembered  to  you  with  thankful- 
ness for  your  ready  contribution.  Her  album  is 
filling  apace.  But  of  her  contributors  one,  al- 
most the  flower  of  it,  a  most  amiable  young 
man  and  late  acquaintance  of  mine,  has  been 
carried  off  by  consumption,  on  return  from  one 
of  the  Azores  islands,  to  which  he  went  with 
hopes  of  mastering  the  disease,  came  back  im- 
proved, went  back  to  a  most  close  and  confined 
counting  house,  and  relapsed.  His  name  was 
Dibdin,  grandson  of  the  songster. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Emma,  tho' 
unknown  to  you,  has  given  the  highest  satis- 
faction in  her  little  place  of  governante  in  a 
clergyman's  family,  which  you  may  believe  by 
the  parson  and  his  lady  drinking  poor  Mary's 
health  on  her  birthday,  tho'  they  never  saw  her, 
merely  because  she  was  a  friend  of  Emma's,  and 
the  vicar  also  sent  me  a  brace  of  partridges. 

To  get  out  of  home  themes,  have  you  seen 
Southey's  Dialogues?    His  lake  descriptions,  and 

17S 


the  account  of  his  library  at  Keswick,  are  very 
fine.  But  he  needed  not  have  called  up  the 
Ghost  of  More  to  hold  the  conversations  with, 
which  might  as  well  have  pass'd  between  A  and 
B,  or  Caius  and  Lucius.  It  is  making  too  free 
with  a  defunct  Chancellor  and  Martyr. 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  nothing  farther  to  write  about 
—  O  !  I  forget  the  prettiest  letter  I  ever  read, 
that  I  have  received  from  Pleasures  of  Memory 
Rogers,  in  acknowledgment  of  a  sonnet  I  sent 
him  on  the  Loss  of  his  Brother.  It  is  too  long 
to  transcribe,  but  I  hope  to  shew  it  you  some 
day,  as  I  hope  some  time  again  to  see  you,  when 
all  of  us  are  well.  Only  it  ends  thus :  "  We 
were  nearly  of  an  age  (he  was  the  elder).  He 
was  the  only  person  in  the  world  in  whose  eyes 
I  always  appeared  young." 

I  will  now  take  my  leave  with  assuring  you 
that  I  am  most  interested  in  hoping  to  hear 
favourable  accounts  from  you. 

With  kindest  regards  to  A.  K.  and  you, 

Yours  truly,  C.  L. 

DCV.  — TO  WILLIAM   AYRTON 

June  10,  1829. 

My  dear  Ayrton,  —  It  grieves  me  that  I  can- 
not join  you.  Besides  that  I  have  two  young 
friends  in  the  house,  I  expect  a  London  visitor 
on  Thursday.  I  hope  to  see  H.  C.  R.  here  before 
he  goes,  and  you  before  we  all  go. 

176 


God  bless  you.  Health  to  the  Party.  Love  to 
Mrs.  A.  C.  Lamb 

DCVI.  — TO   THOMAS  ALLSOP 

1829. 

Dear  Allsop,  —  I  will  find  out  your  Bijoux  some 
day.  At  present,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  we  have 
neither  of  us  very  good  spirits ;  and  I  cannot 
look  to  any  pleasant  expeditions. 

You  speak  of  your  trial  as  a  known  thing,  but 
I  am  quite  in  the  dark  about  it ;  but  wish  you 
a  safe  issue  most  heartily. 

Our  loves  to  Mrs.  Allsop  and  children. 

C.  L. 

DCVII.— TO  WILLIAM  HAZLITT,  JUNIOR 

June,  1829. 

My  dear  Wm.,  —  I  am  very  uncomfortable, 
and  when  Emma  leaves  me,  I  shall  wish  to  be 
quite  alone  ;  therefore  pray  tell  your  mother  I  re- 
gret that  I  cannot  see  her  here  this  time,  but  hope 
to  see  her  when  times  are  better  with  me.  The 
young  ladies  are  very  pleasant,  but  my  spirits  have 
much  ado  to  keep  pace  with  theirs.  I  decidedly 
wish  to  be  alone,  or  I  know  of  none  I  should 
rather  see  than  your  mother.  Make  my  best  ex- 
cuse. Emma  will  explain  to  you  the  state  of  my 
wretched  spirits.         Yours, 

C.  Lamb 
177 


DCVIII.  — TO   THOMAS   ALLSOP 

At  midsummer  or  soon  after  (I  will  let  you 
know  the  previous  day),  I  will  take  a  day  with 
you  in  the  purlieus  of  my  old  haunts.  No  of- 
fence has  been  taken,  any  more  than  meant.  My 
house  is  full  at  present,  but  empty  of  its  chief 
pride.  She  is  dead  to  me  for  many  months.  But 
when  I  see  you,  then  I  will  say,  Come  and 
see  me.  With  undiminished  friendship  to  you 
both,  Your  faithful  but  queer, 

C.  L. 

How  you  frighted  me  !  Never  write  again, 
"  Coleridge  is  dead,"  at  the  end  of  a  line,  and 
tamely  come  in  with  —  "  to  his  friends"  at  the 
beginning  of  another.  Love  is  quicker,  and  fear 
from  love,  than  the  transition  ocular  from  line 
to  line. 

DCIX.  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

Enfield  Chase  Side,  Saturday,  25  July  a.d.  1829 —  n  a.m. 

There  —  a  fuller,  plumper,  juiceier  date  never 
dropt  from  Idumean  palm.  Am  I  in  the  dateive 
case  now  ?  if  not,  a  fig  for  dates,  which  is  more 
than  a  date  is  worth.  I  never  stood  much  affected 
to  these  limitary  specialties.  Least  of  all  since  the 
date  of  my  superannuation. 

What  have  I  with  Time  to  do  ? 
Slaves  of  desks,  't  was  meant  for  you. 

178 


Dear  B.  B.,  —  Your  handwriting  has  conveyed 
much  pleasure  to  me  in  report  of  Lucy's  restora- 
tion. Would  I  could  send  you  as  good  news  of 
my  poor  Lucy  !  But  some  wearisome  weeks  I 
must  remain  lonely  yet.  I  have  had  the  loneliest 
time  near  ten  weeks,  broken  by  a  short  apparition 
of  Emma  for  her  holydays,  whose  departure  only 
deepen' d  the  returning  solitude,  and  by  ten  days 
I  have  past  in  town.  But  town,  with  all  my 
native  hankering  after  it,  is  not  what  it  was.  The 
streets,  the  shops  are  left,  but  all  old  friends 
are  gone.  And  in  London  I  was  frightfully  con- 
vinced of  this  as  I  past  houses  and  places  — 
empty  caskets  now.  I  have  ceased  to  care  almost 
about  anybody.  The  bodies  I  cared  for  are  in 
graves,  or  dispersed.  My  old  clubs,  that  lived  so 
long  and  flourish'd  so  steadily,  are  crumbled 
away.  When  I  took  leave  of  our  adopted  young 
friend  at  Charing  Cross,  'twas  heavy  unfeeling 
rain,  and  I  had  nowhere  to  go.  Home  have  I 
none,  and  not  a  sympathising  house  to  turn  to  in 
the  great  city.  Never  did  the  waters  of  the  heaven 
pour  down  on  a  forlorner  head.  Yet  I  tried  ten 
days  at  a  sort  of  a  friend's  house,  but  it  was  large 
and  straggling  —  one  of  the  individuals  of  my  old 
long  knot  of  friends,  card-players,  pleasant  com- 
panions —  that  have  tumbled  to  pieces  into  dust 
and  other  things  —  and  I  got  home  on  Thurs- 
day, convinced  that  I  was  better  to  get  home  to 
my  hole  at  Enfield,  and  hide  like  a  sick  cat  in 
my  corner.    Less  than  a  month  I  hope  will  bring 

179 


home  Mary.  She  is  at  Fulham,  looking  better 
in  her  health  than  ever,  but  sadly  rambling,  and 
scarce  showing  any  pleasure  in  seeing  me,  or  cu- 
riosity when  I  should  come  again.  But  the  old 
feelings  will  come  back  again,  and  we  shall  drown 
old  sorrows  over  a  game  at  picquet  again.  But 
't  is  a  tedious  cut  out  of  a  life  of  sixty-four,  to 
lose  twelve  or  thirteen  weeks  every  year  or  two. 
And  to  make  me  more  alone,  our  ill-temper'd 
maid  is  gone,  who,  with  all  her  airs,  was  yet  a  home 
piece  of  furniture,  a  record  of  better  days ;  the 
young  thing  that  has  succeeded  her  is  good  and 
attentive,  but  she  is  nothing — and  I  have  no  one 
here  to  talk  over  old  matters  with.  Scolding  and 
quarreling  have  something  of  familiarity  and  a 
community  of  interest — they  imply  acquaint- 
ance —  they  are  of  resentment,  which  is  of  the 
family  of  dearness.  I  can  neither  scold  nor  quarrel 
at  this  insignificant  implement  of  household  ser- 
vices ;  she  is  less  than  a  cat,  and  just  better  than 
a  deal  dresser.  What  I  can  do,  and  do  overdo,  is 
to  walk,  but  deadly  long  are  the  days  —  these 
summer  all-day  days,  with  but  a  half  hour's  can- 
dlelight and  no  firelight.  I  do  not  write,  tell 
your  kind  inquisitive  Eliza,  and  can  hardly  read. 
In  the  ensuing  Blackwood  will  be  an  old  rejected 
farce  of  mine,  which  may  be  new  to  you,  if  you 
see  that  same  dull  medley.  What  things  are  all 
the  magazines  now  !  I  contrive  studiously  not  to 
see  them.  The  popular  New  Monthly  is  perfect 
trash. 

180 


Poor  Hessey,  I  suppose  you  see,  has  failed. 
Hunt  and  Clarke  too.  Your  Vulgar  Truths  will 
be  a  good  name  ;  and  I  think  your  prose  must 
please — me  at  least — but  'tis  useless  to  write 
poetry  with  no  purchasers.  'T  is  cold  work 
authorship  without  something  to  puff  one  into 
fashion.  Could  you  not  write  something  on 
Quakerism — for  Quakers  to  read  — but  nomi- 
nally addrest  to  Non-Quakers  ?  explaining  your 
dogmas — waiting  on  the  Spirit — by  the  ana- 
logy of  human  calmness  and  patient  waiting  on 
the  judgment  ?  I  scarcely  know  what  I  mean, 
but  to  make  Non-Quakers  reconciled  to  your  doc- 
trines, by  shewing  something  like  them  in  mere 
human  operations  —  but  I  hardly  understand  my- 
self, so  let  it  pass  for  nothing. 

I  pity  you  for  over-work,  but  I  assure  you 
no-work  is  worse.  The  mind  preys  on  itself, 
the  most  unwholesome  food.  I  brag'd  formerly 
that  I  could  not  have  too  much  time.  I  have 
a  surfeit.  With  few  years  to  come,  the  days 
are  wearisome.  But  weariness  is  not  eternal. 
Something  will  shine  out  to  take  the  load  off, 
that  flags  me,  which  is  at  present  intolerable. 
I  have  killed  an  hour  or  two  in  this  poor  scrawl. 
I  am  a  sanguinary  murderer  of  time,  and  would 
kill  him  inch-meal  just  now.  But  the  snake  is 
vital.  Well,  I  shall  write  merrier  anon.  "T  is 
the  present  copy  of  my  countenance  I  send  — 
and  to  complain  is  a  little  to  alleviate.  May  you 
enjoy  yourself  as  far  as  the  wicked  world  will  let 

181 


you  —  and  think  that  you  are  not  quite  alone, 
as  I  am.  Health  to  Lucia  and  to  Anna  and  kind 
remembrances.  Yours  forlorn,  C.  L. 

DCX.  — TO  THOMAS  ALLSOP 

Late  July,  1829. 

My  dear  Allsop,  —  I  thank  you  for  thinking 
of  my  recreation.  But  I  am  best  here,  I  feel  I 
am.  I  have  tried  town  lately,  but  came  back 
worse.  Here  I  must  wait  till  my  loneliness  has 
its  natural  cure.  Besides  that,  though  I  am  not 
very  sanguine,  yet  I  live  in  hopes  of  better  news 
from  Fulham,  and  cannot  be  out  of  the  way. 
'T  is  ten  weeks  to-morrow.  I  saw  Mary  a  week 
since,  she  was  in  excellent  bodily  health,  but 
otherwise  far  from  well.  But  a  week  or  so  may 
give  a  turn.  Love  to  Mrs.  A.  and  children,  and 
fair  weather  accompany  you.  C.  L. 

DCXI.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

September  22,  1829. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  If  you  can  oblige  me  with 
the  Garrick  Papers  or  Anne  of  Geierstein,  I  shall 
be  thankful.  I  am  almost  fearful  whether  my 
sister  will  be  able  to  enjoy  any  reading  at  present; 
for  since  her  coming  home,  after  twelve  weeks, 
she  has  had  an  unusual  relapse  into  the  saddest 
low  spirits  that  ever  poor  creature  had,  and  has 
been  some  weeks  under  medical  care.    She  is 

182 


unable  to  see  any  yet.  When  she  is  better  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  talk  over  your  ramble  with  you. 
Have  you  done  any  sonnets?  can  you  send  me 
any  to  overlook  ?  I  am  almost  in  despair ;  Mary's 
case  seems  so  hopeless.     Believe  me  yours, 

C.  L. 

I  do  not  want  Mrs.  Jameson  or  Lady  Morgan. 

DCXII.  —  TO   JAMES   GILLMAN 

October  26,  1829. 

Dear  Gillman, — Allsop  brought  me  your  kind 
message  yesterday.  How  can  I  account  for  having 
not  visited  Highgate  this  long  time?  Change  of 
place  seemed  to  have  changed  me.  How  grieved 
I  was  to  hear  in  what  indifferent  health  Cole- 
ridge has  been,  and  I  not  to  know  of  it !  A  little 
school  divinity,  well  applied,  may  be  healing.  I 
send  him  honest  Tom  of  Aquin ;  that  was  always 
an  obscure  great  idea  to  me :  I  never  thought  or 
dreamed  to  see  him  in  the  flesh,  but  t'  other  day 
I  rescued  him  from  a  stall  in  Barbican,  and 
brought  him  off  in  triumph.  He  comes  to  greet 
Coleridge's  acceptance,  for  his  shoe-latchets  I  am 
unworthy  to  unloose.  Yet  there  are  pretty  pro's 
and  con's,  and  such  unsatisfactory  learning  in 
him.    Commend  me  to  the  question  of  etiquette 

—  "utrum  annunciatio  debuerit  fieri  per  angelum" 

—  Quaest.  30,  Articulus  2.  I  protest,  till  now 
I  had  thought  Gabriel  a  fellow  of  some  mark 

183 


and  livelihood,  not  a  simple  esquire,  as  I  find 
him. 

Well,  do  not  break  your  lay  brains,  nor  I  nei- 
ther, with  these  curious  nothings.  They  are  nuts 
to  our  dear  friend,  whom  hoping  to  see  at  your 
first  friendly  hint  that  it  will  be  convenient,  I 
end  with  begging  our  very  kindest  loves  to  Mrs. 
Gillman.  We  have  had  a  sorry  house  of  it  here. 
Our  spirits  have  been  reduced  till  we  were  at 
hope's  end  what  to  do  —  obliged  to  quit  this 
house,  and  afraid  to  engage  another,  till  in  ex- 
tremity I  took  the  desperate  resolve  of  kicking 
house  and  all  down,  like  Bunyan's  pack;  and 
here  we  are  in  a  new  life  at  board  and  lodging, 
with  an  honest  couple  our  neighbours.  We  have 
ridded  ourselves  of  the  cares  of  dirty  acres ;  and 
the  change,  though  of  less  than  a  week,  has  had 
the  most  beneficial  effects  on  Mary  already.  She 
looks  two  years  and  a  half  younger  for  it.  But  we 
have  had  sore  trials. 

God  send  us  one  happy  meeting! 

Yours  faithfully,       C.  Lamb 

DCXIII.  — TO  VINCENT   NOVELLO 

November  10,  1829. 

Dear  Fugue-ist,  or  bear'st  thou  rather  Contra- 
puntist?—  We  expect  you  four  (as  many  as  the 
table  will  hold  without  squeeging)  [squeezing] 
at  Mrs.  Westwood's  table  d'hote  on  Thursday. 
You  will  find  the  White  House  shut  up,  and  us 

184 


moved  under  the  wing  of  the  Phoenix,  which 
gives  us  friendly  refuge.  Beds  for  guests,  marry, 
we  have  none,  but  cleanly  accomodings  at  the 
Crown  and  Horseshoe. 

Yours  harmonically,  C.  L. 

DCXIV.  — TO  WALTER  WILSON 

November  15,  1829. 

My  dear  Wilson,  —  I  have  not  opened  a  packet 
of  unknown  contents  for  many  years,  that  gave 
me  so  much  pleasure  as  when  I  disclosed  your 
three  volumes.  I  have  given  them  a  careful  peru- 
sal, and  they  have  taken  their  degree  of  classical 
books  upon  my  shelves.  De  Foe  was  always  my 
darling;  but  what  darkness  was  I  in  as  to  far 
the  larger  part  of  his  writings !  I  have  now  an 
epitome  of  them  all.  I  think  the  way  in  which 
you  have  done  the  Life  the  most  judicious  you 
could  have  pitched  upon.  You  have  made  him 
tell  his  own  story,  and  your  comments  are  in  keep- 
ing with  the  tale.  Why,  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  work  as  the  Review.  Strange  that  in  my  stall- 
hunting  days  I  never  so  much  as  lit  upon  an  odd 
volume  of  it.  This  circumstance  looks  as  if  they 
were  never  of  any  great  circulation.  But  I  may 
have  met  with  'em,  and  not  knowing  the  prize, 
overpast  'em.  I  was  almost  a  stranger  to  the 
whole  history  of  Dissenters  in  those  reigns,  and 
picked  my  way  through  that  strange  book  the 
Consolidator  at  random.    How  affecting  are  some 

185 


of  his  personal  appeals  !  what  a  machine  of  pro- 
jects he  set  on  foot!  and  following  writers  have 
picked  his  pocket  of  the  patents.  I  do  not  under- 
stand whereabouts  in  Roxana  he  himself  left  off. 
I  always  thought  the  complete-tourist-sort  of 
description  of  the  town  she  passes  through  on  her 
last  embarkation  miserably  unseasonable  and  out 
of  place.  I  knew  not  they  were  spurious.  En- 
lighten me  as  to  where  the  apocryphal  matter 
commences.  I,  by  accident,  can  correct  one  A. 
D.,  Family  Instructor,  vol.  ii,  171 8;  you  say  his 
first  volume  had  then  reached  the  fourth  edition; 
now  I  have  a  fifth,  printed  for  Eman.  Matthews, 
171 7.  So  have  I  plucked  one  rotten  date,  or 
rather  picked  it  up  where  it  had  inadvertently 
fallen,  from  your  flourishing  date  tree,  the  Palm 
of  Engaddi.  I  may  take  it  for  my  pains.  I  think 
yours  a  book  which  every  public  library  must 
have,  and  every  English  scholar  should  have.  I 
am  sure  it  has  enriched  my  meagre  stock  of  the 
author's  works.  I  seem  to  be  twice  as  opulent. 
Mary  is  by  my  side  just  finishing  the  second  vol- 
ume. It  must  have  interest  to  divert  her  away  so 
long  from  her  modern  novels.  Colburn  will  be 
quite  jealous. 

I  was  a  little  disappointed  at  my  Ode  to  the 
Treadmill  not  finding  a  place ;  but  it  came  out 
of  time.  The  two  papers  of  mine  will  puzzle 
the  reader,  being  so  akin.  Odd  that,  never  keep- 
ing a  scrap  of  my  own  letters,  with  some  fifteen 
years'   interval   I   should   nearly   have  said   the 

186 


same  things.  But  I  shall  always  feel  happy  in 
having  my  name  go  down  anyhow  with  De 
Foe's,  and  that  of  his  historiographer.  I  pro- 
mise myself,  if  not  immortality,  yet  diuternity  of 
being  read  in  consequence.  We  have  both  had 
much  illness  this  year ;  and  feeling  infirmities 
and  fretfulness  grow  upon  us,  we  have  cast  off 
the  cares  of  housekeeping,  sold  off  our  goods, 
and  commenced  boarding  and  lodging  with  a 
very  comfortable  old  couple  next  door  to  where 
you  found  us.  We  use  a  sort  of  common  table. 
'  Nevertheless,  we  have  reserved  a  private  one  for 
an  old  friend ;  and  when  Mrs.  Wilson  and  you 
revisit  Babylon,  we  shall  pray  you  to  make  it 
yours  for  a  season.  Our  very  kindest  remem- 
brances to  you  both. 

From  your  old  friend  and  fellow-journalist, 
now  in  two  instances,  C.  Lamb 

Hazlitt  is  going  to  make  your  book  a  basis 
for  a  review  of  De  Foe's  Novels  in  the  Edinbro' . 
I  wish  I  had  health  and  spirits  to  do  it.  Hone 
I  have  not  seen,  but  I  doubt  not  he  will  be 
much  pleased  with  your  performance.  I  very 
much  hope  you  will  give  us  an  account  of  Dun- 
ton,  &c.  But  what  I  should  more  like  to  see 
would  be  a  Life  and  Times  of  Bunyan.  Wish- 
ing health  to  you  and  long  life  to  your  healthy 
book,  again  I  subscribe  me, 

Yours  in  verity,  C.  L. 

187 


DCXV.  — TO  JAMES  GILLMAN 

November  29,  1829. 

Pray  trust  me  with  the  Church  History ,  as  well 
as  the  Worthies.  A  moon  shall  restore  both. 
Also  give  me  back  "  Him  of  Aquinum."  In  re- 
turn you  have  the  light  of  my  countenance.    Adieu. 

P.  S.  A  sister  also  of  mine  comes  with  it. 
A  son  of  Nimshi  drives  her.  Their  driving  will 
have  been  furious,  impassioned.  Pray  God  they 
have  not  toppled  over  the  tunnel !  I  promise  you 
I  fear  their  steed,  bred  out  of  the  wind  with- 
out father,  semi-Melchisedecish,  hot,  phaetontic. 
From  my  country  lodgings  at  Enfield. 

C.  L. 

DCXVI.  — TO   JAMES  GILLMAN 

November  30,  1829. 

Dear  G.,  —  The  excursionists  reached  home, 
and  the  good  town  of  Enfield  a  little  after  four, 
without  slip  or  dislocation.  Little  has  transpired 
concerning  the  events  of  the  back-journey,  save 
that  on  passing  the  house  of 'Squire  Mellish,  situ- 
ate a  stone-bow's  cast  from  the  hamlet,  Father 
Westwood,  with  a  good-natured  wonderment,  ex- 
claimed, "  I  cannot  think  what  is  gone  of  Mr. 
Mellish's  rooks.  I  fancy  they  have  taken  flight 
somewhere  ;  but  I  have  missed  them  two  or  three 
years  past."  All  this  while,  according  to  his  fel- 
low-traveller's report,  the  rookery  was  darken- 

188 


ing  the  air  above  with  undiminished  population, 
and  deafening  all  ears  but  his  with  their  cawings. 
But  Nature  has  been  gently  withdrawing  such 
phenomena  from  the  notice  of  Thomas  West- 
wood's  senses,  from  the  time  he  began  to  miss 
the  rooks.  T.  Westwood  has  passed  a  retired  life 
in  this  hamlet  of  thirty  or  forty  years,  living  upon 
the  minimum  which  is  consistent  with  gentility, 
yet  a  star  among  the  minor  gentry,  receiving  the 
bows  of  the  trades-people  and  courtesies  of  the 
alms-women  daily.  Children  venerate  him  not 
less  for  his  external  show  of  gentry,  than  they 
wonder  at  him  for  a  gentle  rising  endorsation  of 
the  person,  not  amounting  to  a  hump,  or  if  a 
hump,  innocuous  as  the  hump  of  the  buffalo,  and 
coronative  of  as  mild  qualities.  'T  is  a  throne  on 
which  patience  seems  to  sit  —  the  proud  perch 
of  a  self-respecting  humility,  stooping  with  con- 
descension. Thereupon  the  cares  of  life  have 
sate,  and  rid  him  easily.  For  he  has  thrid  the 
angustiae  domus  with  dexterity.  Life  opened  upon 
him  with  comparative  brilliancy.  He  set  out  as  a 
rider  or  traveller  for  a  wholesale  house,  in  which 
capacity  he  tells  of  many  hair-breadth  escapes  that 
befell  him  ;  one  especially,  how  he  rode  a  mad 
horse  into  the  town  of  Devizes  ;  how  horse  and 
rider  arrived  in  a  foam,  to  the  utter  consterna- 
tion of  the  expostulating  hostlers,  innkeepers, 
&c.  It  seems  it  was  sultry  weather,  piping  hot ; 
the  steed  tormented  into  frenzy  with  gadflies, 
long  past  being  roadworthy ;  but  safety  and  the 

189 


interest  of  the  house  he  rode  for  were  incompat- 
ible things ;  a  fall  in  serge  cloth  was  expected ; 
and  a  mad  entrance  they  made  of  it.  Whether 
the  exploit  was  purely  voluntary,  or  partially  ;  or 
whether  a  certain  personal  defiguration  in  the 
man  part  of  this  extraordinary  centaur  (non-assist- 
ive  to  partition  of  natures)  might  not  enforce  the 
conjunction,  I  stand  not  to  inquire.  I  look  not 
with  'skew  eyes  into  the  deeds  of  heroes. 

The  hosier  that  was  burnt  with  his  shop,  in 
Field-lane,  on  Tuesday  night,  shall  have  past  to 
heaven  for  me  like  a  Marian  Martyr,  provided 
always  that  he  consecrated  the  fortuitous  incre- 
mation with  a  short  ejaculation  in  the  exit,  as 
much  as  if  he  had  taken  his  state  degrees  of  mar- 
tyrdom in  formd  in  the  market  vicinage.  There 
is  adoptive  as  well  as  acquisitive  sacrifice.  Be  the 
animus  what  it  might,  the  fact  is  indisputable, 
that  this  composition  was  seen  flying  all  abroad, 
and  mine  host  of  Daintry  may  yet  remember  its 
passing  through  his  town,  if  his  scores  are  not 
more  faithful  than  his  memory.  After  this  ex- 
ploit (enough  for  one  man),  Thomas  Westwood 
seems  to  have  subsided  into  a  less  hazardous  oc- 
cupation ;  and  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  his  age 
we  find  him  a  haberdasher  in  Bow  Lane :  yet 
still  retentive  of  his  early  riding  (though  leaving 
it  to  rawer  stomachs),  and  Christmasly  at  night 
sithence  to  this  last,  and  shall  to  his  latest  Christ- 
mas, hath  he,  doth  he,  and  shall  he,  tell  after 
supper  the  story  of  the  insane  steed  and  the  de- 

190 


sperate  rider.  Save  for  Bedlam  or  Luke's  no  eye 
could  have  guessed  that  melting  day  what  house 
he  rid  for.  But  he  reposes  on  his  bridles,  and 
after  the  ups  and  downs  (metaphoric  only)  of  a 
life  behind  the  counter — hard  riding  sometimes, 
I  fear,  for  poor  T.  W.  —  with  the  scrapings  to- 
gether of  the  shop,  and  one  anecdote,  he  hath 
finally  settled  at  Enfield ;  by  hard  economising, 
gardening,  building  for  himself,  hath  reared  a 
mansion,  married  a  daughter,  qualified  a  son  for 
a  counting-house,  gotten  the  respect  of  high  and 
low,  served  for  self  or  substitute  the  greater  par- 
ish offices :  hath  a  special  voice  at  vestries  ;  and, 
domiciliating  us,  hath  reflected  a  portion  of  his 
house-keeping  respectability  upon  your  humble 
servants.  We  are  greater,  being  his  lodgers,  than 
when  we  were  substantial  renters.  His  name  is 
a  passport  to  take  off  the  sneers  of  the  native 
Enfielders  against  obnoxious  foreigners.  We 
are  endenizened.  Thus  much  of  T.  Westwood 
have  I  thought  fit  to  acquaint  you,  that  you  may 
see  the  exemplary  reliance  upon  Providence  with 
which  I  entrusted  so  dear  a  charge  as  my  own 
sister  to  the  guidance  of  a  man  that  rode  the 
mad  horse  into  Devizes.  To  come  from  his 
heroic  character,  all  the  amiable  qualities  of  do- 
mestic life  concentre  in  this  tamed  Bellerophon. 
He  is  excellent  over  a  glass  of  grog ;  just  as 
pleasant  without  it;  laughs  when  he  hears  a  joke, 
and  when  (which  is  much  oftener)  he  hears  it  not; 
sings  glorious  old  sea-songs  on  festival  nights ; 

191 


and  but  upon  a  slight  acquaintance  of  two  years, 
Coleridge,1  is  as  dear  a  deaf  old  man  to  us,  as  old 
Norris,  rest  his  soul !  was  after  fifty.  To  him  and 
his  scanty  literature  (what  there  is  of  it,  sound} 
have  we  flown  from  the  metropolis  and  its  cursed 
annualists,  reviewers,  authors,  and  the  whole 
muddy  ink  press  of  that  stagnant  pool. 

Now,  Gillman  again,  you  do  not  know  the 
treasure  of  the  Fullers.  I  calculate  on  having 
massy  reading  till  Christmas.  All  I  want  here  is 
books  of  the  true  sort,  not  those  things  in  boards 
that  moderns  mistake  for  books  —  what  they 
club  for  at  book-clubs. 

I  did  not  mean  to  cheat  you  with  a  blank  side  ; 
but  my  eye  smarts,  for  which  I  am  taking  med- 
icine, and  abstain,  this  day  at  least,  from  any 
aliments  but  milk-porridge,  the  innocent  taste 
of  which  I  am  anxious  to  renew  after  a  half- 
century's  disacquaintance.  If  a  blot  fall  here 
like  a  tear,  it  is  not  pathos,  but  an  angry  eye. 

Farewell,  while  my  specilla  are  sound. 

Yours  and  yours,  C.  Lamb 

DCXVII.  —  TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

December  8,  1829. 

My  dear  B.  B.,  —  You  are  very  good  to  have 
been  uneasy  about  us,  and  I  have  the  satisfaction 
to  tell  you  that  we  are  both  in  better  health  and 

1   Possibly  Lamb  forgot  here,  and  thought  he  was  writing  to  Cole- 
ridge. —  Ed. 

192 


spirits  than  we  have  been  for  a  year  or  two  past ; 
I  may  say,  than  we  have  been  since  we  have  been 
at  Enfield.  The  cause  may  not  appear  quite  ade- 
quate, when  I  tell  you  that  a  course  of  ill-health 
and  spirits  brought  us  to  the  determination  of 
giving  up  our  house  here,  and  we  are  boarding 
and  lodging  with  a  worthy  old  couple,  long  in- 
habitants of  Enfield,  where  everything  is  done  for 
us  without  our  trouble,  further  than  a  reason- 
able weekly  payment.  We  should  have  done  so 
before,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  flesh  and  blood  to 
give  up  an  ancient  establishment,  to  discard 
old  Penates,  and  from  house-keepers  to  turn 
house-sharers.  (N.  B.  We  are  not  in  the  work- 
house.) Diocletian  in  his  garden  found  more 
repose  than  on  the  imperial  seat  of  Rome,  and 
the  nob  of  Charles  the  Fifth  aked  seldomer  under 
a  monk's  cowl  than  under  the  diadem.  With 
such  shadows  of  assimilation  we  countenance  our 
degradation.  With  such  a  load  of  dignify'd  cares 
just  removed  from  our  shoulders,  we  can  the 
more  understand  and  pity  the  accession  to  yours, 
by  the  advancement  to  an  assigneeship.  I  will 
tell  you  honestly,  B.  B.,  that  it  has  been  long  my 
deliberate  judgment  that  all  bankrupts,  of  what 
denomination  civil  or  religious  whatever,  ought 
to  be  hang'd.  The  pity  of  mankind  has  for  ages 
run  in  a  wrong  channel,  and  has  been  diverted 
from  poor  creditors  (how  many  I  have  known 
sufferers !  Hazlitt  has  just  been  defrauded  of 
j£ioo   by   his  bookseller  -  friend's  breaking)  to 

J93 


scoundrel  debtors.  I  know  all  the  topics,  that 
distress  may  come  upon  an  honest  man  without 
his  fault ;  that  the  failure  of  one  that  he  trusted 
was  his  calamity,  &c,  &c.  Then  let  both  be 
hang'd.  O  how  careful  it  would  make  traders ! 
These  are  my  deliberate  thoughts  after  many 
years'  experience  in  matters  of  trade. 

What  a  world  of  trouble  it  would  save  you, 
if  Friend  *****  had  been  immediately  hang'd, 
without  benefit  of  clergy,  which  (being  a  Quaker 
I  presume)  he  could  not  reasonably  insist  upon. 
Why,  after  slaving  twelve  months  in  your  assign- 
business,  you  will  be  enabled  to  declare  seven 
pence  in  the  pound  in  all  human  probability. 
B.  B.,  he  should  be  hanged.  Trade  will  never 
re-flourish  in  this  land  till  such  a  law  is  estab- 
lished. I  write  big  not  to  save  ink  but  eyes,  mine 
having  been  troubled  with  reading  thro'  three 
folios  of  old  Fuller  in  almost  as  few  days,  and  I 
went  to  bed  last  night  in  agony,  and  am  writing 
with  a  vial  of  eye-water  before  me,  alternately 
dipping  in  vial  and  inkstand.  This  may  enflame 
my  zeal  against  bankrupts  —  but  it  was  my  specu- 
lation when  I  could  see  better.  Half  the  world's 
misery  (Eden  else)  is  owing  to  want  of  money, 
and  all  that  want  is  owing  to  bankrupts.  I  de- 
clare I  would,  if  the  state  wanted  practitioners, 
turn  hangman  myself,  and  should  have  great 
pleasure  in  hanging  the  first  after  my  salutary 
law  should  be  establish'd. 

I  have  seen  no  annuals  and  wish  to  see  none. 
194 


I  like  your  fun  upon  them,  and  was  quite  pleased 
with  Bowles's  sonnet.  Hood  is  or  was  at  Brigh- 
ton, but  a  note,  prose  or  rhime,  to  him,  Robert 
Street,  Adelphi,  I  am  sure  would  extract  a  copy 
of  his,  which  also  I  have  not  seen.  Wishing  you 
and  yours  all  health,  I  conclude  while  these  frail 
glasses  are  to  me  —  eyes.  C.  L. 

DCXVIII.  — TO   BASIL   MONTAGUE 

Dear  M.,  —  I  have  received  the  enclosed  from 
Miss  James.  Her  sister,  Mrs.  Trueman,  is  a  most 
worthy  person.  I  know  all  their  history.  They 
are  four  daughters  of  them,  daughters  of  a  Welch 
clergyman  of  the  greatest  respectability,  who  dy- 
ing, the  family  were  obliged  to  look  about  them, 
and  by  some  fatality  they  all  became  nurses  at 
Mr.  Warburton's,  Hoxton.  Mrs.  Parsons,  one  of 
them,  is  patronized  by  Dr.  Tuthill,  who  can  speak 
to  her  character.  I  can  safely  speak  to  Miss  James's 
for  fifteen  years  or  more.  Trueman  has  been 
a  keeper  at  Warburton's.  Himself  and  wife  are 
willing  to  undertake  the  entire  charge  at  ^200 
a  year.  I  think  you  hardly  pay  less  now.  They 
propose  to  take  a  cottage  near  the  Regent's  Park, 
to  which  by  the  omnibuses  you  can  have  short  and 
easy  access  at  any  hour.  I  will  call  upon  you  to- 
morrow morning  at  office.  Pray,  think  upon  it 
in  the  meanwhile.  I  really  think  it  desirable. 
Yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb 
195 


DCXIX.  — TO    JAMES   S.    KNOWLES 

Dear  Kn, —  I  will  not  see  London  again  with- 
out seeing  your  pleasant  play.  In  meanwhile, 
pray  send  three  or  four  orders  to  a  lady  who  can't 
afford  to  pay,  Miss  James,  No.  i  Grove  Road, 
Lisson  Grove,  Paddington,  a  day  or  two  before ; 
and  come  and  see  us  some  evening,  with  my  hith- 
erto uncorrupted  and  honest  bookseller,  Moxon. 

C.  Lamb 

LETTER  DCXX 

[/«  two  parts] 
I.  — CHARLES  LAMB  TO   WM.  WORDSWORTH 

January  22,  1830. 

And  is  it  a  year  since  we  parted  from  you  at 
the  steps  of  Edmonton  stage  ?  There  are  not  now 
the  years  that  there  used  to  be.  The  tale  of  the 
dwindled  age  of  men,  reported  of  successional 
mankind,  is  true  of  the  same  man  only.  We  do 
not  live  a  year  in  a  year  now.  'T  is  a  punctum  starts. 
The  seasons  pass  us  with  indifference.  Spring 
cheers  not,  nor  winter  heightens  our  gloom,  au- 
tumn hath  foregone  its  moralities  ;  they  are  hey- 
pass  re-pass  [as]  in  a  show-box.  Yet  as  far  as  last 
year  occurs  back,  for  they  scarce  shew  a  reflex 
now,  they  make  no  memory  as  heretofore  — 
't  was  sufficiently  gloomy.  Let  the  sullen  no- 
thing pass. 

196 


Suffice  it  that  after  sad  spirits  prolonged  thro' 
many  of  its  months,  as  it  called  them,  we  have 
cast  our  skins,  have  taken  a  farewell  of  the  pomp- 
ous, troublesome  trifle  call'd  housekeeping,  and 
are  settled  down  into  poor  boarders  and  lodgers 
at  next  door  with  an  old  couple,  the  Baucis  and 
Baucida  of  dull  Enfield.  Here  we  have  nothing 
to  do  with  our  victuals  but  to  eat  them,  with  the 
garden  but  to  see  it  grow,  with  the  tax-gatherer 
but  to  hear  him  knock,  with  the  maid  but  to 
hear  her  scolded.  Scot  and  lot,  butcher,  baker, 
are  things  unknown  to  us  save  as  spectators  of  the 
pageant.  We  are  fed  we  know  not  how,  quiet- 
ists,  confiding  ravens.  We  have  the  otium  pro 
dignitate,  a  respectable  insignificance.  Yet  in  the 
self-condemned  obliviousness,  in  the  stagnation, 
some  molesting  yearnings  of  life,  not  quite  kill'd, 
rise,  prompting  me  that  there  was  a  London, 
and  that  I  was  of  that  old  Jerusalem.  In  dreams 
I  am  in  Fleetmarket,  but  I  wake  and  cry  to  sleep 
again.  I  die  hard,  a  stubborn  Eloisa  in  this  de- 
testable Paraclete.  What  have  I  gained  by  health  ? 
intolerable  dulness.  What  by  early  hours  and  mod- 
erate meals  ?  —  a  total  blank.  O  never  let  the 
lying  poets  be  believed,  who  'tice  men  from  the 
chearful  haunts  of  streets  —  or  think  they  mean 
it  not  of  a  country  village.  In  the  ruins  of  Pal- 
myra I  could  gird  myself  up  to  solitude,  or  muse 
to  the  snorings  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  but  to  have 
a  little  teasing  image  of  a  town  about  one,  coun- 
try folks  that  do  not  look  like  country  folks, 

197 


shops  two  yards  square,  half  a  dozen  apples  and 
two  penn'orth  of  overlook'd  gingerbread  for  the 
lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford  Street  —  and,  for  the 
immortal  book  and  print  stalls,  a  circulating 
library  that  stands  still,  where  the  shew-picture 
is  a  last  year's  valentine,  and  whither  the  fame 
of  the  last  ten  Scotch  novels  has  not  yet  travell'd 
(marry,  they  just  begin  to  be  conscious  of  the 
Redgauntlet),  to  have  a  new  plaster' d  flat  church, 
and  to  be  wishing  that  it  was  but  a  cathedral. 
The  very  blackguards  here  are  degenerate.  The 
topping  gentry,  stock-brokers.  The  passengers 
too  many  to  ensure  your  quiet,  or  let  you  go 
about  whistling,  or  gaping  —  too  few  to  be  the 
fine  indifferent  pageants  of  Fleet  Street. 

Confining,  room-keeping  thickest  winter  is 
yet  more  bearable  here  than  the  gaudy  months. 
Among  one's  books  at  one's  fire  by  candle  one 
is  soothed  into  an  oblivion  that  one  is  not  in  the 
country,  but  with  the  light  the  green  fields  re- 
turn, till  I  gaze,  and  in  a  calenture  can  plunge 
myself  into  Saint  Giles's.  O  let  no  native  Lon- 
doner imagine  that  health,  and  rest,  and  inno- 
cent occupation,  interchange  of  converse  sweet, 
and  recreative  study,  can  make  the  country  any- 
thing better  than  altogether  odious  and  detest- 
able. A  garden  was  the  primitive  prison  till  man 
with  Promethean  felicity  and  boldness  luckily 
sinn'd  himself  out  of  it.  Thence  follow'd  Baby- 
lon, Nineveh,  Venice,  London,  haberdashers, 
goldsmiths,  taverns,  playhouses,  satires,  epigrams, 

198 


puns  —  these  all  came  in  on  the  town  part,  and 
the  thither  side  of  innocence.  Man  found  out 
inventions. 

From  my  den  I  return  you  condolence  for 
your  decaying  sight,  not  for  anything  there  is  to 
see  in  the  country,  but  for  the  miss  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  reading  a  London  newspaper.  The  poets 
are  as  well  to  listen  to,  anything  high  may,  nay 
must,  be  read  out — you  read  it  to  yourself  with 
an  imaginary  auditor  —  but  the  light  paragraphs 
must  be  glid  over  by  the  proper  eye,  mouthing 
mumbles  their  gossamery  substance.  'T  is  these 
trifles  I  should  mourn  in  fading  sight.  A  news- 
paper is  the  single  gleam  of  comfort  I  receive 
here,  it  comes  from  rich  Cathay  with  tidings  of 
mankind.  Yet  I  could  not  attend  to  it  read  out 
by  the  most  beloved  voice.  But  your  eyes  do 
not  get  worse,  I  gather.  O  for  the  collyrium  of 
Tobias  inclosed  in  a  whiting's  liver  to  send  you 
with  no  apocryphal  good  wishes  !  The  last  long 
time  I  heard  from  you,  you  had  knock'd  your 
head  against  something.  Do  not  do  so.  For 
your  head  (I  do  not  flatter)  is  not  a  nob,  or  the 
top  of  a  brass  nail,  or  the  end  of  a  ninepin  — 
unless  a  Vulcanian  hammer  could  fairly  batter 
a  Recluse  out  of  it,  then  would  I  bid  the  smirch' d 
god  knock  and  knock  lustily,  the  two-handed 
skinker. 

What  a  nice  long  letter  Dorothy  has  written  ! 
Mary  must  squeeze  out  a  line  propria  manu,  but 
indeed  her  fingers  have  been  incorrigibly  nervous 

199 


to  letter-writing  for  a  long  interval.  'T  will 
please  you  all  to  hear  that,  tho'  I  fret  like  a  lion 
in  a  net,  her  present  health  and  spirits  are  better 
than  they  have  been  for  some  time  past :  she  is 
absolutely  three  years  and  a  half  younger,  as  I  tell 
her,  since  we  have  adopted  this  boarding  plan. 
Our  providers  are  an  honest  pair,  dame  Westwood 
and  her  husband  —  he,  when  the  light  of  pro- 
sperity shined  on  them,  a  moderately  thriving 
haberdasher  within  Bow  Bells,  retired  since  with 
something  under  a  competence,  writes  himself 
parcel  gentleman,  hath  borne  parish  offices,  sings 
fine  old  sea  songs  at  threescore  and  ten,  sighs 
only  now  and  then  when  he  thinks  that  he  has 
a  son  on  his  hands  about  fifteen,  whom  he  finds 
a  difficulty  in  getting  out  into  the  world,  and 
then  checks  a  sigh  with  muttering,  as  I  once 
heard  him  prettily,  not  meaning  to  be  heard,  "  I 
have  married  my  daughter,  however,"  —  takes 
the  weather  as  it  comes,  outsides  it  to  town  in 
severest  season,  and  o'  winter  nights  tells  old 
stories  not  tending  to  literature,  how  comfort- 
able to  author-rid  folks !  and  has  one  anecdote, 
upon  which  and  about  forty  pounds  a  year  he 
seems  to  have  retired  in  green  old  age.  It  was 
how  he  was  a  rider  in  his  youth,  travelling  for 
shops,  and  once  (not  to  baulk  his  employer's 
bargain)  on  a  sweltering  day  in  August,  rode 
foaming  into  Dunstable  upon  a  mad  horse  to  the 
dismay  and  expostulary  wonderment  of  inn- 
keepers, ostlers,  &c,  who  declared  they  would 

200 


not  have  bestrid  the  beast  to  win  the  Darby. 
Understand  the  creature  gall'd  to  death  and  de- 
speration by  gadflies,  cormorants  winged,  worse 
than  beset  Inachus'  daughter.  This  he  tells,  this 
he  brindles  and  burnishes  on  a'  winter's  eves; 
'tis  his  star  of  set  glory,  his  rejuvenescence  to 
descant  upon.  Far  from  me  be  it  {dii  avertani} 
to  look  a  gift  story  in  the  mouth,  or  cruelly  to 
surmise  (as  those  who  doubt  the  plunge  of  Cur- 
tius)  that  the  inseparate  conjuncture  of  man  and 
beast,  the  centaur-phenomenon  that  stagger'd 
all  Dunstable,  might  have  been  the  effect  of  un- 
romantic  necessity,  that  the  horse-part  carried 
the  reasoning,  willy-nilly,  that  needs  must  when 
such  a  devil  drove,  that  certain  spiral  configura- 
tions in  the  frame  of  Thomas  Westwood  un- 
friendly to  alighting,  made  the  alliance  more 
forcible  than  voluntary.  Let  him  enjoy  his  fame 
for  me,  nor  let  me  hint  a  whisper  that  shall  dis- 
mount Bellerophon.  Put  case  he  was  an  invol- 
untary martyr,  yet  if  in  the  fiery  conflict  he 
buckled  the  soul  of  a  constant  haberdasher  to 
him,  and  adopted  his  flames,  let  accident  and 
he  share  the  glory  !  You  would  all  like  Thomas 
Westwood. 


How  weak  is  painting  to  describe  a  man ! 
201 


Say  that  he  stands  four  feet  and  a  nail  high  by 
his  own  yard  measure,  which  like  the  sceptre  of 
Agamemnon  shall  never  sprout  again,  still  you 
have  no  adequate  idea,  nor  when  I  tell  you  that 
his  dear  hump,  which  I  have  favour' d  in  the  pic- 
ture, seems  to  me  of  the  buffalo  —  indicative  and 
repository  of  mild  qualities,  a  budget  of  kind- 
nesses, still  you  have  not  the  man.  Knew  you  old 
Norris  of  the  Temple,  sixty  years  ours  and  our 
father's  friend ;  he  was  not  more  natural  to  us 
than  this  old  W.,  the  acquaintance  of  scarce  more 
weeks.  Under  his  roof  now  ought  I  to  take  my 
rest,  but  that  back-looking  ambition  tells  me  I 
mightyet  be  a  Londoner.  Well,  if  we  ever  do  move, 
we  have  encumbrances  the  less  to  impede  us  :  all 
our  furniture  has  faded  under  the  auctioneer's 
hammer,  going  for  nothing  like  the  tarnish'd 
frippery  of  the  prodigal,  and  we  have  only  a  spoon 
or  two  left  to  bless  us.  Clothed  we  came  into 
Enfield,  and  naked  we  must  go  out  of  it.  I  would 
live  in  London  shirtless,  bookless.  Henry  Crabb 
is  at  Rome,  advices  to  that  effect  have  reach'd 
Bury.  But  by  solemn  legacy  he  bequeath'd  at 
parting  (whether  he  should  live  or  die)  a  turkey 
of  Suffolk  to  be  sent  every  succeeding  Xmas  to 
us  and  divers  other  friends.  What  a  genuine  old 
bachelor's  action  !  I  fear  he  will  find  the  air  of 
Italy  too  classic.  His  station  is  in  the  Hartz  for- 
est, his  soul  is  be-Goetbed.  Miss  Kelly  we  never 
see  ;  Talfourd  not  this  half-year  ;  the  latter  flour- 
ishes, but  the  exact  number  of  his  children,  God 

202 


forgive  me,  I  have  utterly  forgotten,  we  single 
people  are  often  out  in  our  count  there.  Shall 
I  say  two  ?  One  darling  I  know  they  have  lost 
within  a  twelvemonth,  but  scarce  known  to  me 
by  sight,  and  that  was  a  second  child  lost.  We 
see  scarce  anybody.  We  have  just  now  Emma 
with  us  for  her  holydays :  you  remember  her  play- 
ing at  brag  with  Mr.  Quillinan  at  poor  Monk- 
house's  !  She  is  grown  an  agreeable  young  wo- 
man ;  she  sees  what  I  write,  so  you  may  understand 
me  with  limitations.  She  was  our  inmate  for  a 
twelvemonth,  grew  natural  to  us,  and  then  they 
told  us  it  was  best  for  her  to  go  out  as  a  govern- 
ess, and  so  she  went  out,  and  we  were  only  two 
of  us,  and  our  pleasant  house-mate  is  changed 
to  an  occasional  visitor.  If  they  want  my  sister  to 
go  out  (as  they  call  it)  there  will  be  only  one 
of  us.  Heaven  keep  us  all  from  this  acceding  to 
unity ! 

Can  I  cram  loves  enough  to  you  all  in  this  lit- 
tle O  ?    Excuse  particularizing.  C.  L. 

II.  — MARY  LAMB   TO   MISS  WORDSWORTH 

My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth,  —  Charles  has  left 
me  space  to  fill  up  with  my  own  poor  scribble, 
which  I  must  do  as  well  as  I  can,  being  quite 
out  of  practice ;  and  after  he  has  been  reading 
his  queer  letter  out  to  us  I  can  hardly  put  down 
in  a  plain  style  all  I  had  to  tell  you  ;  how  pleas- 
ant your  handwriting  was  to  me.  He  has  lumped 

203 


you  all  together  in  one  rude  remembrance  at  the 
end  ;  but  I  beg  to  send  my  love  individually  and 
by  name  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  to  Miss 
Hutchinson,  whom  we  often  talk  of,  and  think 
of  as  being  with  you  always,  to  the  dutiful  good 
daughter  and  patient  amanuensis  Dora,  and  even 
to  Johanna,  whom  we  have  not  seen,  if  she  will 
accept  it.  Charles  has  told  you  of  my  long  ill- 
ness and  our  present  settlement,  which  I  assure 
you  is  very  quiet  and  comfortable  to  me,  and  to 
him  too,  if  he  would  own  it. 

I  am  very  sorry  we  shall  not  see  John,  but  I 
never  go  to  town,  nor  my  brother  but  at  his 
quarterly  visits  at  the  India  House;  and  when 
he  does,  he  finds  it  melancholy,  so  many  of  our 
old  friends  being  dead  or  dispersed,  and  the  very 
streets,  he  says,  altering  every  day. 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  and  the  nice  news 
in  it,  which  I  should  have  replied  to  more  at 
large  than  I  see  he  has  done.  I  am  sure  it  de- 
served it.  He  has  not  said  a  word  about  your 
intentions  for  Rome,  which  I  sincerely  wish  you 
health  one  day  to  accomplish.  In  that  case  we 
may  meet  by  the  way.  We  are  so  glad  to  hear 
dear  little  William  is  doing  well.  If  you  knew 
how  happy  your  letters  made  us  you  would  write 
I  know  more  frequently.  Pray  think  of  this. 
How  chearfully  should  we  pay  the  postage  every 
week.  Your  affectionate, 

Mary  Lamb 

204 


DCXXI.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

February  21,  1 8  30. 

Dear  M.,  —  I  came  to  town  last  week,  but 
could  not  stretch  so  far  as  you.  A  letter  has  just 
come  from  Mrs.  Williams  to  say  that  Emma  is 
so  poorly  that  she  must  have  long  holydays  here. 
It  has  agitated  us  so  much,  and  we  shall  expect 
her  so  hourly,  that  you  shall  excuse  me  to 
Wordsworth  for  not  coming  up ;  we  are  both 
nervous  and  poorly.  Your  punctual  newspapers 
are  our  bit  of  comfort.    Adieu,  till  better  times. 

C.  Lamb 

Ryle  comes  on  Sunday  week.  Can  you  come 
with  him?    See  him. 

DCXXII.— TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

February  25,  1830. 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  To  reply  to  you  by  return  of 
post,  I  must  gobble  up  my  dinner,  and  dispatch 
this  in  propria  persona  to  the  office,  to  be  in  in 
time.  So  take  it  from  me  hastily,  that  you  are 
perfectly  welcome  to  furnish  A.  C.  with  the  scrap, 
which  I  had  almost  forgotten  writing.  The  more 
my  character  comes  to  be  known,  the  less  my 
veracity  will  come  to  be  suspected.  Time  every 
day  clears  up  some  suspected  narrative  of  Herodo- 
tus, Bruce,  and  others  of  us  great  travellers. 
Why,  that  Joseph  Paice  was  as  real  a  person  as 

201; 


Joseph  Hume,  and  a  great  deal  pleasanter.  A 
careful  observer  of  life,  Bernard,  has  no  need  to 
invent.  Nature  romances  it  for  him.  Dinner 
plates  rattle,  and  I  positively  shall  incur  indiges- 
tion by  carrying  it  half  concocted  to  the  Post 
House.  Let  me  congratulate  you  on  the  spring 
coming  in,  and  do  you  in  return  condole  with 
me  for  the  winter  going  out.  When  the  old  one 
goes,  seldom  comes  a  better.  I  dread  the  pro- 
spect of  summer,  with  his  all  day  long  days.  No 
need  of  his  assistance  to  make  country  places 
dull.  With  fire  and  candle-light,  I  can  dream 
myself  in  Holborn.  With  lightsome  skies  shin- 
ing in  to  bedtime,  I  cannot.  This  Meseck,  and 
these  tents  of  Kedar —  I  would  dwell  in  the  skirts 
of  Jericho  rather,  and  think  every  blast  of  the 
coming-in  mail  a  ram's  horn.  Give  me  old  Lon- 
don at  fire  and  plague  times,  rather  than  these 
tepid  gales,  healthy  country  air,  and  purposeless 
exercise.  Leg  of  mutton  absolutely  on  the  table. 
Take  our  hasty  loves  and  short  farewell. 

C.  L. 

DCXXIII.  —  TO    MRS.   WILLIAMS 

February  26,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  — May  God  bless  you  for  your 
attention  to  our  poor  Emma  !  I  am  so  shaken 
with  your  sad  news  I  can  scarce  write.  She  is 
too  ill  to  be  removed  at  present ;  but  we  can  only 
say  that  if  she  is  spared,  when  that  can  be  prac- 

206 


ticable,  we  have  always  a  home  for  her.  Speak 
to  her  of  it,  when  she  is  capable  of  understanding, 
and  let  me  conjure  you  to  let  us  know,  from  day 
to  day,  the  state  she  is  in.  But  one  line  is  all  we 
crave.  Nothing  we  can  do  for  her,  that  shall  not 
be  done.  We  shall  be  in  the  terriblest  suspense. 
We  had  no  notion  she  was  going  to  be  ill.  A  line 
from  anybody  in  your  house  will  much  oblige  us. 
I  feel  for  the  situation  this  trouble  places  you  in. 
Can  I  go  to  her  aunt,  or  do  anything  ?  I  do 
not  know  what  to  offer.  We  are  in  great  distress. 
Pray  relieve  us,  if  you  can,  by  somehow  letting 
us  know.  I  will  fetch  her  here,  or  anything. 
Your  kindness  can  never  be  forgot.  Pray  excuse 
my  abruptness.  I  hardly  know  what  I  write. 
And  take  our  warmest  thanks.  Hoping  to  hear 
something,  I  remain,  dear  Madam, 

Yours  most  faithfully,  C.  Lamb 

Our  grateful  respects  to  Mr.  Williams. 

DCXXIV.  — TO    MRS.   WILLIAMS 

March  i,  1830. 

Dear  Madam, — We  cannot  thank  you  enough. 
Your  two  words  "  much  better  "  were  so  consid- 
erate and  good.  The  good  news  affected  my  sister 
to  an  agony  of  tears ;  but  they  have  relieved  us 
from  such  a  weight.  We  were  ready  to  expect  the 
worst,  and  were  hardly  able  to  bear  the  good 
hearing.    You  speak  so  kindly  of  her,  too,  and 

207 


think  she  may  be  able  to  resume  her  duties.  We 
were  prepared,  as  far  as  our  humble  means  would 
have  enabled  us,  to  have  taken  her  from  all  duties. 
But  far  better  for  the  dear  girl  it  is  that  she  should 
have  a  prospect  of  being  useful. 

I  am  sure  you  will  pardon  my  writing  again ; 
for  my  heart  is  so  full  that  it  was  impossible  to 
refrain.  Many  thanks  for  your  offer  to  write 
again,  should  any  change  take  place.  I  dare  not 
yet  be  quite  out  of  fear,  the  alteration  has  been 
so  sudden.  But  I  will  hope  you  will  have  a  respite 
from  the  trouble  of  writing  again.  I  know  no 
expression  to  convey  a  sense  of  your  kindness. 
We  were  in  such  a  state  expecting  the  post.  I 
had  almost  resolved  to  come  as  near  you  as  Bury; 
but  my  sister's  health  does  not  permit  my  absence 
on  melancholy  occasions.  But  O,  how  happy  will 
she  be  to  part  with  me,  when  I  shall  hear  the 
agreeable  news  that  I  may  come  and  fetch  her. 
She  shall  be  as  quiet  as  possible.  No  restorative 
means  shall  be  wanting  to  restore  her  back  to 
you  well  and  comfortable. 

She  will  make  up  for  this  sad  interruption  of 
her  young  friend's  studies.  I  am  sure  she  will  — 
she  must  —  after  you  have  spared  her  for  a  little 
time.  Change  of  scene  may  do  very  much  for 
her.  I  think  this  last  proof  of  your  kindness  to 
her  in  her  desolate  state  can  hardly  make  her  love 
and  respect  you  more  than  she  has  ever  done.  O, 
how  glad  shall  we  be  to  return  her  fit  for  her 
occupation. 

208 


Madam,  I  trouble  you  with  my  nonsense  ;  but 
you  would  forgive  me,  if  you  knew  how  light- 
hearted  you  have  made  two  poor  souls  at  Enfield, 
that  were  gasping  for  news  of  their  poor  friend. 
I  will  pray  for  you  and  Mr.  Williams.  Give  our 
very  best  respects  to  him,  and  accept  our  thanks. 
We  are  happier  than  we  hardly  know  how  to 
bear.  God  bless  you  !  My  very  kindest  congratu- 
lations to  Miss  Humphreys. 

Believe  me,  dear  madam,  your  ever  obliged 
servant,  C.  Lamb 

DCXXV.  — TO    SARAH    HAZLITT 

March  4,  1830. 

Dear  Sarah,  —  I  was  meditating  to  come  and 
see  you,  but  I  am  unable  for  the  walk.  We  are 
both  very  unwell,  and  under  affliction  for  poor 
Emma,  who  has  had  a  very  dangerous  brain  fever, 
and  is  lying  very  ill  at  Bury,  from  whence  I  ex- 
pect a  summons  to  fetch  her.  We  are  very  sorry 
for  your  confinement.  Any  books  I  have  are  at 
your  service.  I  am  almost,  I  may  say  quite,  sure 
that  letters  to  India  pay  no  postage,  and  may  go 
by  the  regular  Post  Office,  now  in  St.  Martin's 
le  Grand.  I  think  any  receiving  house  would 
take  them. 

I  wish  I  could  confirm  your  hopes  about  Dick 
Norris.  But  it  is  quite  a  dream.  Some  old  Bencher 
of  his  surname  is  made  Treasurer  for  the  year,  I 
suppose,  which  is  an  annual  office.    Norris  was 

209 


sub-treasurer, — quite  a  different  thing.  They 
were  pretty  well  in  the  summer,  since  when  we 
have  heard  nothing  of  them.  Mrs.  Reynolds  is 
better  than  she  has  been  for  years  ;  she  is  with  a 
disagreeable  woman  that  she  has  taken  a  mighty 
fancy  to  out  of  spite  to  a  rival  woman  she  used  to 
live  and  quarrel  with  ;  she  grows  quite  fat,  they 
tell  me,  and  may  live  as  long  as  I  do,  to  be  a  tor- 
menting rent-charge  to  my  diminish'd  income. 
We  go  on  pretty  comfortably  in  our  new  plan. 
I  will  come  and  have  a  talk  with  you  when  poor 
Emma's  affair  is  settled,  and  will  bring  books. 
At  present  I  am  weak,  and  could  hardly  bring 
my  legs  home  yesterday  after  a  much  shorter 
stroll  than  to  Northaw.  Mary  has  got  her  bon- 
net on  for  a  short  expedition.  May  you  get  better, 
as  the  spring  comes  on.  She  sends  her  best  love 
with  mine.  C.  L. 

DCXXVL  — TO  MRS.  WILLIAMS 

March  5,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  —  I  feel  greatly  obliged  by  your 
letter  of  Tuesday,  and  should  not  have  troubled 
you  again  so  soon,  but  that  you  express  a  wish 
to  hear  that  our  anxiety  was  relieved  by  the  as- 
surances in  it.  You  have  indeed  given  us  much 
comfort  respecting  our  young  friend,  but  con- 
siderable uneasiness  respecting  your  own  health 
and  spirits,  which  must  have  suffered  under  such 
attention.  Pray  believe  me  that  we  shall  wait  in 

210 


quiet  hope  for  the  time  when  I  shall  receive  the 
welcome  summons  to  come  and  relieve  you  from 
a  charge,  which  you  have  executed  with  such 
tenderness.  We  desire  nothing  so  much  as  to 
exchange  it  with  you.  Nothing  shall  be  want- 
ing on  my  part  to  remove  her  with  the  best 
judgment  I  can,  without  (I  hope)  any  necessity 
for  depriving  you  of  the  services  of  your  valuable 
housekeeper.  Until  the  day  comes,  we  entreat 
that  you  will  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  writ- 
ing, which  we  should  be  ashamed  to  impose 
upon  you  in  your  present  weak  state.  Not  hear- 
ing from  you,  we  shall  be  satisfied  in  believing 
that  there  has  been  no  relapse.  Therefore  we 
beg  that  you  will  not  add  to  your  troubles  by 
unnecessary,  though  most  kind,  correspondence. 

Till  I  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  you 
personally,  I  beg  you  to  accept  these  written 
acknowledgments  of  all  your  kindness.  With 
respects  to  Mr.  Williams  and  sincere  prayers  for 
both  your  healths,  I  remain, 

Your  ever  obliged  servant,         C.  Lamb 

My  sister  joins  me  in  respects  and  thanks. 

DCXXVII.— TO  JAMES  GILLMAN 

March  8,  1830. 

My  dear  G.,  —  Your  friend  Battin  (for  I  knew 
him  immediately  by  the  smooth  satinity  of  his 
style)  must  excuse  me  for  advocating  the  cause 

211 


of  his  friends  in  Spitalfields.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
retained  by  the  Norwich  people,  and  have  already 
appeared  in  their  paper  under  the  signatures  of 
"Lucius  Sergius,"  "Bluff,"  "Broad-Cloth," 
"  No-Trade-to-the-Woollen-Trade,"  "  Anti- 
plush,"  &c,  in  defence  of  druggets  and  long 
camblets.  And  without  this  pre-engagement,  I 
feel  I  should  naturally  have  chosen  a  side  oppo- 
site to ,  for  in  the  silken  seemingness  of  his 

nature  there  is  that  which  offends  me.  My  flesh 
tingles  at  such  caterpillars.  He  shall  not  crawl 
me  over.  Let  him  and  his  workmen  sing  the 
old  burthen,  — 

Heigh  ho,  ye  weavers  ! 

for  any  aid  I  shall  offer  them  in  this  emergency. 
I  was  over  Saint  Luke's  the  other  day  with  my 
friend  Tuthill,  and  mightily  pleased  with  one  of 
his  contrivances  for  the  comfort  and  amelior- 
ation of  the  students.  They  have  double  cells, 
in  which  a  pair  may  lie  feet  to  feet  horizontally, 
and  chat  the  time  away  as  rationally  as  they  can. 
It  must  certainly  be  more  sociable  for  them  these 
warm  raving  nights.  The  right-hand  truckle  in 
one  of  these  friendly  recesses,  at  present  vacant, 
was  preparing,  I  understood,  for  Mr.  Irving. 
Poor  fellow !  it  is  time  he  removed  from  Pen- 
tonville.  I  followed  him  as  far  as  to  Highbury 
the  other  day,  with  a  mob  at  his  heels,  calling 
out  upon  Ermigiddon,  who  I  suppose  is  some 
Scotch  moderator.   He  squinted  out  his  favourite 

212 


eye  last  Friday,  in  the  fury  of  possession,  upon  a 
poor  woman's  shoulders  that  was  crying  matches, 
and  has  not  missed  it.  The  companion  truck,  as 
far  as  I  could  measure  it  with  my  eye,  would 
conveniently  fit  a  person  about  the  length  of 
Coleridge,  allowing  for  a  reasonable  drawing 
up  of  the  feet,  not  at  all  painful.  Does  he  talk 
of  moving  this  quarter  ?  You  and  I  have  too 
much  sense  to  trouble  ourselves  with  revelations ; 
marry,  to  the  same  in  Greek  you  may  have  some- 
thing professionally  to  say. 

Tell  C.  that  he  was  to  come  and  see  us  some 
fine  day.  Let  it  be  before  he  moves,  for  in  his 
new  quarters  he  will  necessarily  be  confined  in 
his  conversation  to  his  brother  prophet.  Con- 
ceive the  two  Rabbis  foot  to  foot,  for  there  are 
no  Gamaliels  there  to  affect  a  humbler  posture ! 
All  are  masters  in  that  Patmos,  where  the  law 
is  perfect  equality  —  Latmos,  I  should  rather  say, 
for  they  will  be  Luna's  twin  darlings  ;  her  affec- 
tion will  be  ever  at  the  full.  Well ;  keep  your 
brains  moist  with  gooseberry  this  mad  March, 
for  the  devil  of  exposition  seeketh  dry  places. 

C.  L. 

NOTE 

["  He  squinted  out  *  *  *  ."  Irving  had  sight  only  in  one 
eye,  an  obliquity  caused,  it  is  suggested,  by  lying  when  a  baby 
in  a  wooden  cradle,  the  sides  of  which  prevented  the  other 
from  gathering  light. 

"  To  the  same  in  Greek."  An  atrocious  pun,  which  I  leave 
to  the  reader  to  discover.  Gillman  was  a  doctor.  —  E.  V. 
Lucas.] 

213 


DCXXV1IL—  TO  WILLIAM  AYRTON 

March  14,  1830. 

My  dear  Ayrton,  —  Your  letter,  which  was 
only  not  so  pleasant  as  your  appearance  would 
have  been,  has  revived  some  old  images  ;  Phillips 
(not  the  colonel),  with  his  few  hairs  bristling  up 
at  the  charge  of  a  revoke,  which  he  declares  im- 
possible ;  the  old  captain's  significant  nod  over 
the  right  shoulder  (was  it  not  ?)  ;  Mrs.  Burney's 
determined  questioning  of  the  score,  after  the 
game  was  absolutely  gone  to  the  devil,  the  plain 
but  hospitable  cold  boiled-beef  suppers  at  side- 
board ;  all  which  fancies,  redolent  of  middle  age 
and  strengthful  spirits,  come  across  us  ever  and 
anon  in  this  vale  of  deliberate  senectitude,ycleped 
Enfield. 

You  imagine  a  deep  gulf  between  you  and  us ; 
and  there  is  a  pitiable  hiatus  in  kind  between  St. 
James's  Park  and  this  extremity  of  Middlesex. 
But  the  mere  distance  in  turnpike  roads  is  a  trifle. 
The  roof  of  a  coach  swings  you  down  in  an  hour 
or  two.  We  have  a  sure  hot  joint  on  a  Sunday, 
and  when  had  we  better  ?  I  suppose  you  know 
that  ill  health  has  obliged  us  to  give  up  house- 
keeping ;  but  we  have  an  asylum  at  the  very  next 
door  —  only  twenty-four  inches  further  from 
town,  which  is  not  material  in  a  country  expe- 
dition —  where  a  table  d'hote  is  kept  for  us,  with- 
out trouble  on  our  parts,  and  we  adjourn  after 
dinner,  when  one  of  the  old  world  (old  friends) 

214 


drops  casually  down  among  us.  Come  and  find 
us  out,  and  seal  our  judicious  change  with  your 
approbation,  whenever  the  whim  bites,  or  the  sun 
prompts.  No  need  of  announcement,  for  we  are 
sure  to  be  at  home. 

I  keep  putting  off  the  subject  of  my  answer. 
In  truth  I  am  not  in  spirits  at  present  to  see  Mr. 
Murray  on  such  a  business ;  but  pray  offer  him  my 
acknowledgments  and  an  assurance  that  I  should 
like  at  least  one  of  his  propositions,  as  I  have 
so  much  additional  matter  for  the  Specimens, 
as  might  make  two  volumes  in  all,  or  one  (new 
edition)  omitting  such  better  known  authors  as 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Jonson,  &c. 

But  we  are  both  in  trouble  at  present.  A  very 
dear  young  friend  of  ours,  who  passed  her  Christ- 
mas holidays  here,  has  been  taken  dangerously  ill 
with  a  fever,  from  which  she  is  very  precariously 
recovering,  and  I  expect  a  summons  to  fetch  her 
when  she  is  well  enough  to  bear  the  journey 
from  Bury.  It  is  Emma  Isola,  with  whom  we 
got  acquainted  at  our  first  visit  to  your  sister 
at  Cambridge,  and  she  has  been  an  occasional 
inmate  with  us  —  and  of  late  years  much  more 
frequently  —  ever  since.  While  she  is  in  this 
danger,  and  till  she  is  out  of  it,  and  here  in  a 
probable  way  to  recovery,  I  feel  that  I  have  no 
spirits  for  an  engagement  of  any  kind.  It  has 
been  a  terrible  shock  to  us ;  therefore  I  beg 
that  you  will  make  my  handsomest  excuses  to 
Mr.  Murray. 

215 


Our  very  kindest  loves  to  Mrs.  A.  and  the 
younger  A.'s. 

Your  unforgotten,  C.  Lamb 

DCXXIX.  — TO  MRS.  WILLIAMS 

March  22,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  —  Once  more  I  have  to  return 
you  thanks  for  a  very  kind  letter.  It  has  glad- 
dened us  very  much  to  hear  that  we  may  have 
hope  to  see  our  young  friend  so  soon,  and  through 
your  kind  nursing  so  well  recovered.  I  sincerely 
hope  that  your  own  health  and  spirits  will  not 
have  been  shaken :  you  have  had  a  sore  trial 
indeed,  and  greatly  do  we  feel  indebted  to  you 
for  all  which  you  have  undergone.  If  I  hear 
nothing  from  you  in  the  meantime,  I  shall 
secure  myself  a  place  in  the  Cornwallis  Coach  for 
Monday.  It  will  not  be  at  all  necessary  that 
I  shall  be  met  at  Bury,  as  I  can  well  find  my 
way  to  the  rectory,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  not 
inconvenience  yourselves  by  such  attention.  Ac- 
cordingly as  I  find  Miss  Isola  able  to  bear  the 
journey,  I  intend  to  take  the  care  of  her  by 
the  same  stage  or  by  chaises  perhaps,  dividing  the 
journey ;  but  exactly  as  you  shall  judge  fit. 

It  is  our  misfortune  that  long  journeys  do  not 
agree  with  my  sister,  who  would  else  have  taken 
this  care  upon  herself,  perhaps  more  properly. 
It  is  quite  out  of  the  question  to  rob  you  of  the 
service  of  any  of  your  domestics.    I  cannot  think 

216 


of  it.  But  if  in  your  opinion  a  female  attendant 
would  be  requisite  on  the  journey,  or  if  you  or 
Mr.  Williams  would  feel  more  comfortable  by  her 
being  in  the  charge  of  two,  I  will  most  gladly 
engage  one  of  her  nurses  or  any  young  person 
near  you  that  you  can  recommend ;  for  my  ob- 
ject is  to  remove  her  in  the  way  that  shall  be 
most  satisfactory  to  yourselves. 

On  the  subject  of  the  young  people  that  you 
are  interesting  yourselves  about,  I  will  have  the 
pleasure  to  talk  with  you  when  I  shall  see  you. 
I  live  almost  out  of  the  world  and  out  of  the 
sphere  of  being  useful ;  but  no  pains  of  mine 
shall  be  spared,  if  but  a  prospect  opens  of  doing 
a  service.  Could  I  do  all  I  could  wish,  and  I  in- 
deed have  grown  helpless  to  myself  and  others, 
it  would  not  satisfy  the  arrears  of  obligation 
I  owe  to  Mr.  Williams  and  yourself  for  all  your 
kindness. 

I  beg  you  will  turn  in  your  mind  and  consider 
in  what  most  comfortable  way  Miss  Isola  can 
leave  your  house,  and  I  will  implicitly  follow 
your  suggestions.  What  you  have  done  for  her 
can  never  be  effaced  from  our  memories,  and 
I  would  have  you  part  with  her  in  the  way  that 
would  best  satisfy  yourselves. 

I  am  afraid  of  impertinently  extending  my 
letter,  else  I  feel  I  have  not  half  said  what  I 
would  say.  So,  dear  madam,  till  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  both,  of  whose  kindness 
I  have  heard  so  much  before,  I  respectfully  take 

217 


my  leave  with  our  kindest  love  to  your  poor  pa- 
tient and  most  sincere  regards  for  the  health  and 
happiness  of  Mr.  Williams  and  yourself.  May 
God  bless  you.  Ch.  Lamb 

DCXXX.  — TO    MRS.   WILLIAMS 

April  2,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  —  I  have  great  pleasure  in  let- 
ting you  know  that  Miss  Isola  has  suffered  very 
little  from  fatigue  on  her  long  journey.  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  I  came  home  rather  the 
more  tired  of  the  two.  But  I  am  a  very  unprac- 
tised traveller.  She  has  had  two  tolerable  nights' 
sleeps  since,  and  is  decidedly  not  worse  than  when 
we  left  you.  I  remembered  the  magnesia  accord- 
ing to  your  directions,  and  promise  that  she  shall 
be  kept  very  quiet,  never  forgetting  that  she  is 
still  an  invalid. 

We  found  my  sister  very  well  in  health,  only 
a  little  impatient  to  see  her;  and,  after  a  few 
hysterical  tears  for  gladness,  all  was  comfortable 
again.  We  arrived  here  from  Epping  between 
five  and  six.  The  incidents  of  our  journey  were 
trifling,  but  you  bade  me  tell  them.  We  had 
then  in  the  coach  a  rather  talkative  gentleman, 
but  very  civil,  all  the  way,  and  took  up  a  servant 
maid  at  Stamford,  going  to  a  sick  mistress.  To 
the  latter,  a  participation  in  the  hospitalities  of 
your  nice  rusks  and  sandwiches  proved  agree- 
able, as  it  did  to  my  companion,  who  took  merely 

218 


a  sip  of  the  weakest  wine  and  water  with  them. 
The  former  engaged  me  in  a  discourse  for  full 
twenty  miles  on  the  probable  advantages  of  steam 
carriages,  which  being  merely  problematical,  I 
bore  my  part  in  with  some  credit,  in  spite  of 
my  totally  un-engineer-like  faculties.  But  when 
somewhere  about  Stanstead  he  put  an  unfortun- 
ate question  to  me  as  to  the  "probability  of  its 
turning  out  a  good  turnip  season  ;  "  and  when  I, 
who  am  still  less  of  an  agriculturist  than  a  steam- 
philosopher,  not  knowing  a  turnip  from  a  potato 
ground,  innocently  made  answer  that  I  believed 
it  depended  very  much  upon  boiled  legs  of  mut- 
ton, my  unlucky  reply  set  Miss  Isola  a-laughing 
to  a  degree  that  disturbed  her  tranquillity  for  the 
only  moment  in  our  journey.  I  am  afraid  my 
credit  sank  very  low  with  my  other  fellow-trav- 
eller, who  had  thought  he  had  met  with  a  well- 
informed  passenger,  which  is  an  accident  so  desir- 
able in  a  stage-coach.  We  were  rather  less  com- 
municative, but  still  friendly,  the  rest  of  the  way. 
How  I  employed  myself  between  Epping  and 
Enfield  the  poor  verses *  in  the  front  of  my  paper 

1  L  east  Daughter,  but  not  least  beloved,  of  Grace ! 

0  frown  not  on  a  stranger,  who  from  place 

U  nknown  and  distant  these  few  lines  hath  penn'd. 

1  but  report  what  thy  Instructress  Friend 
S  o  oft  hath  told  us  of  thy  gentle  heart. 
A  pupil  most  affectionate  thou  art, 

C  areful  to  learn  what  elder  years  impart. 
L  ouisa  —  Clare  —  by  which  name  shall  I  call  thee  ? 
A  prettier  pair  of  names  sure  ne'  er  was  found, 
R  esembling  thy  own  sweetness  in  sweet  sound. 
E  ver  calm  peace  and  innocence  befal  thee ! 

219 


may  inform  you,  which  you  may  please  to  christen 
an  acrostic  in  a  Cross  Road,  and  which  I  wish 
were  worthier  of  the  lady  they  refer  to.  But 
I  trust  you  will  plead  my  pardon  to  her  on  a  sub- 
ject so  delicate  as  a  lady's  good  name.  Your 
candour  must  acknowledge  that  they  are  written 
strait. 

And  now  dear  Madam,  I  have  left  myself 
hardly  space  to  express  my  sense  of  the  friendly 
reception  I  found  at  Fornham.  Mr.  Williams 
will  tell  you  that  we  had  the  pleasure  of  a  slight 
meeting  with  him  on  the  road,  where  I  could 
almost  have  told  him,  but  that  it  seemed  ungra- 
cious, that  such  had  been  your  hospitality  that 
I  scarcely  missed  the  good  master  of  the  family 
at  Fornham,  though  heartily  I  should  have  re- 
joiced to  have  made  a  little  longer  acquaintance 
with  him.  I  will  say  nothing  of  our  deeper 
obligations  to  both  of  you,  because  I  think  we 
agreed  at  Fornham,  that  gratitude  may  be  over- 
exacted  on  the  part  of  the  obliging,  and  over- 
expressed  on  the  part  of  the  obliged,  person. 
My  sister  and  Miss  Isola  join  in  respects  to  Mr. 
Williams  and  yourself,  and  I  beg  to  be  remem- 
bered kindly  to  the  Miss  Hammonds  and  the 
two  gentlemen  whom  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
meet  at  your  house.  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
election  in  which  you  are  interesting  yourself, 
and  the  little  that  I  can  I  will  do  immediately. 
Miss  Isola  will  have  the  pleasure  of  writing  to 
you  next  week,  and  we  shall  hope,  at  your  leisure, 

220 


to  hear  of  your  own  health,  &c.    I  am,  dear 
Madam,  with  great  respect,  your  obliged, 

Charles  Lamb 

[ Added  in  Miss  Isolds  handi\  I  must  just  add 
a  line  to  beg  you  will  let  us  hear  from  you,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Williams.  I  have  just  received  the 
forwarded  letter.  Fornham  we  have  talked  about 
constantly,  and  I  felt  quite  strange  at  this  home 
the  first  day.  I  will  attend  to  all  you  said,  my 
dear  Madam. 

DCXXXL  —  TO   MRS.   WILLIAMS 

April  9,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  —  I  do  assure  you  that  your 
verses  gratified  me  very  much,  and  my  sister  is 
quite  proud  of  them.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  congratulated  myself  upon  the  shortness 
and  meanness  of  my  name.  Had  it  been  Schwartz- 
enberg  or  Esterhazy,  it  would  have  put  you  to 
some  puzzle.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  sicken  you 
of  acrostics ;  but  this  last  was  written  to  order.1 

1  G  o  little  Poem,  and  present 
R  espectful  terms  of  compliment ; 
A  gentle  lady  bids  thee  speak ! 
C  ourteous  is  she,  tho'  thou  be  weak  — 
E  voke  from  Heaven  as  thick  as  manna 

J  oy  after  joy  on  Grace  Joanna: 
O  n  Fornham' s  Glebe  and  Pasture  land 
A  blessing  pray.    Long,  long  may  stand, 
N  ot  touched  by  Time,  the  Rectory  blithe; 
N  o  grudging  churl  dispute  his  Tithe; 
A  t  Easter  be  the  offerings  due 

*22I 


I  beg  you  to  have  inserted  in  your  county  paper 
something  like  this  advertisement :  "  To  the 
nobility,  gentry,  and  others,  about  Bury  :  —  C. 
Lamb  respectfully  informs  his  friends  and  the 
public  in  general,  that  he  is  leaving  off  business 
in  the  acrostic  line,  as  he  is  going  into  an  en- 
tirely new  line.  Rebuses  and  charades  done  as 
usual,  and  upon  the  old  terms.  Also,  epitaphs 
to  suit  the  memory  of  any  person  deceased." 
I  thought  I  had  adroitly  escaped  the  rather  un- 
pliable  name  of  "Williams,"  curtailing  your 
poor  daughters  to  their  proper  surnames ;  but  it 
seems  you  would  not  let  me  off  so  easily.  If  these 
trifles  amuse  you,  I  am  paid.  Tho'  really  'tis 
an  operation  too  much  like — "A,  apple-pye; 
B,  bit  it."  To  make  amends,  I  request  leave 
to  lend  you  the  Excursion,  and  to  recommend, 
in  particular,  the  Churchyard  Stories,  in  the  sev- 
enth book,  I  think.  They  will  strengthen  the 
tone  of  your  mind  after  its  weak  diet  on  acros- 
tics. 

Miss  Isola  is  writing,  and  will  tell  you  that 
we  are  going  on  very  comfortably.  Her  sister 
is  just  come.  She  blames  my  last  verses,  as  being 
more  written  on  Mr.  Williams  than  on  yourself; 

W  ith  cheerful  spirit  paid  ;  each  pew 

I  n  decent  order  filled  5  no  noise 

L  oud  intervene  to  drown  the  voice, 

L  earning,  or  wisdom  of  the  Teacher  ; 

I   mpressive  be  the  Sacred  Preacher, 
A  nd  strict  his  notes  on  holy  page  ; 
M  ay  young  and  old  from  age  to  age 

S  alute,  and  still  point  out,  "The  good  man's  Parsonage!" 

222 


but  how  should  I  have  parted  whom  a  superior 
Power  has  brought  together?  I  beg  you  will 
jointly  accept  of  our  best  respects,  and  pardon 
your  obsequious  if  not  troublesome  correspond- 
ent, C.  L. 

P.  S.  I  am  the  worst  folder-up  of  a  letter  in 
the  world,  except  certain  Hottentots,  in  the 
land  of  Caffre,  who  never  fold  up  their  letters 
at  all,  writing  very  badly  upon  skins,  &c. 

DCXXXII.  — TO  JAMES  GILLMAN 

Early  spring,  1830. 

Dear  Gillman,  —  Pray  do  you,  or  S.  T.  C, 
immediately  write  to  say  you  have  received  back 
the  golden  works  of  the  dear,  fine,  silly  old 
angel,  which  I  part  from,  bleeding,  and  to  say 
how  the  winter  has  used  you  all. 

It  is  our  intention  soon,  weather  permitting, 
to  come  over  for  a  day  at  Highgate;  for  beds 
we  will  trust  to  the  Gate-House,  should  you  be 
full:  tell  me  if  we  may  come  casually,  for  in 
this  change  of  climate  there  is  no  naming  a  day 
for  walking.  With  best  loves  to  Mrs.  Gillman, 
&c. 

Yours,  mopish,  but  in  health, 

C.  Lamb 

I  shall  be  uneasy  till  I  hear  of  Fuller's  safe 
arrival. 

223 


DCXXXIII.  — TO  JAMES  VALE  ASBURY 

April,  1830. 

Dear  Sir,  —  Some  draughts  and  boluses  have 
been  brought  here,  which  we  conjecture  were 
meant  for  the  young  lady  whom  you  saw  this 
morning,  though  they  are  labelled  for 

Miss  I  so  la  Lamb. 

No  such  person  is  known  on  the  Chase  Side,  and 
she  is  fearful  of  taking  medicines  which  may 
have  been  made  up  for  another  patient.  She  begs 
me  to  say  that  she  was  born  an  Isola  and  chris- 
tened Emma.  Moreover,  that  she  is  Italian  by 
birth,  and  that  her  ancestors  were  from  Isola 
Bella  (Fair  Island)  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 
She  has  never  changed  her  name,  and  rather 
mournfully  adds  that  she  has  no  prospect  at  pre- 
sent of  doing  so.  She  is  literally  /.  Sola,  or  single, 
at  present.  Therefore  she  begs  that  the  obnox- 
ious monosyllable  may  be  omitted  on  future 
phials  —  an  innocent  syllable  enough,  you'll 
say,  but  she  has  no  claim  to  it.  It  is  the  bitterest 
pill  of  the  seven  you  have  sent  her.  When  a 
lady  loses  her  good  name,  what  is  to  become  of 
her  ?  Well  she  must  swallow  it  as  well  as  she 
can,  but  begs  the  dose  may  not  be  repeated. 
Yours  faithfully, 

Charles  Lamb  (not  Isola) 


224 


DCXXXIV.— TO  JAMES  VALE  ASBURY 

[Undated.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  is  an  observation  of  a  wise  man 
that  "  moderation  is  best  in  all  things."  I  can- 
not agree  with  him  "in  liquor."  There  is  a 
smoothness  and  oiliness  in  wine  that  makes  it  go 
down  by  a  natural  channel,  which  I  am  positive 
was  made  for  that  descending.  Else,  why  does 
not  wine  choke  us  ?  could  Nature  have  made 
that  sloping  lane,  not  to  facilitate  the  down- 
going  ?  She  does  nothing  in  vain.  You  know 
that  better  than  I.  You  know  how  often  she 
has  helped  you  at  a  dead  lift,  and  how  much 
better  entitled  she  is  to  a  fee  than  yourself 
sometimes,  when  you  carry  off  the  credit.  Still 
there  is  something  due  to  manners  and  customs, 
and  I  should  apologise  to  you  and  Mrs.  Asbury 
for  being  absolutely  carried  home  upon  a  man's 
shoulders  thro'  Silver  Street,  up  Parson's  Lane, 
by  the  Chapels  (which  might  have  taught  me 
better),  and  then  to  be  deposited  like  a  dead  log 
at  Gaffer  Westwood's,  who  it  seems  does  not 
"  insure "  against  intoxication.  Not  that  the 
mode  of  conveyance  is  objectionable.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  more  easy  than  a  one-horse  chaise. 
Ariel  in  the  Tempest  says,  — 

On  a  bat's  back  do  I  fly,  after  sunset  merrily. 

Now  I  take  it  that  Ariel  must  sometimes  have 
stayed  out  late  of  nights.    Indeed,  he  pretends 

225 


that  "  where  the  bee  sucks,  there  sucks  he,"  as 
much  as  to  say  that  his  suction  is  as  innocent  as 
that  little  innocent  (but  damnably  stinging  when 
he  is  provok'd)  winged  creature.  But  I  take  it 
that  Ariel  was  fond  of  metheglin,  of  which  the 
bees  are  notorious  brewers. 

But  then  you  will  say :  What  a  shocking 
sight  to  see  a  middle-aged  gentleman-and-a-half 
riding  upon  a  gentleman's  back  up  Parson's  Lane 
at  midnight.  Exactly  the  time  for  that  sort  of 
conveyance,  when  nobody  can  see  him,  nobody 
but  heaven  and  his  own  conscience ;  now  heaven 
makes  fools,  and  don't  expect  much  from  her 
own  creation ;  and  as  for  conscience,  she  and  I 
have  long  since  come  to  a  compromise.  I  have 
given  up  false  modesty,  and  she  allows  me  to 
abate  a  little  of  the  true.  I  like  to  be  liked,  but 
I  don't  care  about  being  respected.  I  don't  re- 
spect myself.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  I  thought  he 
would  have  let  me  down  just  as  we  got  to  Lieu- 
tenant Barker's  coal-shed  (or  emporium),  but  by 
a  cunning  jerk  I  eased  myself,  and  righted  my 
posture.  I  protest,  I  thought  myself  in  a  palan- 
quin, and  never  felt  myself  so  grandly  carried. 
It  was  a  slave  under  me.  There  was  I,  all  but 
my  reason.  And  what  is  reason?  and  what  is 
the  loss  of  it?  and  how  often  in  a  day  do  we 
do  without  it,  just  as  well  ?  Reason  is  only  count- 
ing, two  and  two  makes  four.  And  if  on  my 
passage  home,  I  thought  it  made  five,  what 
matter  ?    Two  and  two  will  just  make  four,  as 

226 


it  always  did,  before  I  took  the  finishing  glass 
that  did  my  business.  My  sister  has  begged  me 
to  write  an  apology  to  Mrs.  A.  and  you  for  dis- 
gracing your  party ;  now  it  does  seem  to  me 
that  I  rather  honoured  your  party,  for  every  one 
that  was  not  drunk  (and  one  or  two  of  the  ladies, 
I  am  sure,  were  not)  must  have  been  set  off  greatly 
in  the  contrast  to  me.  I  was  the  scapegoat.  The 
soberer  they  seemed.  By  the  way  is  magnesia 
good  on  these  occasions  ?  iiipol:  med :  sum:  ante 
noct :  in  rub :  can :.  I  am  no  licentiate,  but  know 
enough  of  simples  to  beg  you  to  send  me  a 
draught  after  this  model.  But  still  you  will  say 
(or  the  men  and  maids  at  your  house  will  say) 
that  it  is  not  a  seemly  sight  for  an  old  gentleman 
to  go  home  pick-a-back.  Well,  may  be  it  is  not. 
But  I  never  studied  grace.  I  take  it  to  be  a  mere 
superficial  accomplishment.  I  regard  more  the 
internal  acquisitions.  The  great  object  after  sup- 
per is  to  get  home,  and  whether  that  is  obtained 
in  a  horizontal  posture  or  perpendicular  (as  fool- 
ish men  and  apes  affect  for  dignity)  I  think  is 
little  to  the  purpose.  The  end  is  always  greater 
than  the  means.  Here  I  am,  able  to  compose  a 
sensible  rational  apology,  and  what  signifies  how 
I  got  here?  I  have  just  sense  enough  to  remem- 
ber I  was  very  happy  last  night,  and  to  thank 
our  kind  host  and  hostess,  and  that 's  sense  enough, 
I  hope.  Charles  Lamb 

N.  B.    What  is  good  for  a  desperate  head- 
227 


ache  ?  Why,  patience,  and  a  determination  not 
to  mind  being  miserable  all  day  long.  And  that 
I  have  made  my  mind  up  to.  So,  here  goes. 
It  is  better  than  not  being  alive  at  all,  which 
I  might  have  been,  had  your  man  toppled  me 
down  at  Lieut.  Barker's  coal-shed.  My  sister 
sends  her  sober  compliments  to  Mrs.  A.  She 
is  not  much  the  worse. 

Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DCXXXV.  — TO    MRS.    WILLIAMS 

April  21,  1830. 

Dear  Madam,  —  I  have  ventured  upon  some 
lines,  which  combine  my  old  acrostic  talent 
(which  you  first  found  out)  with  my  new  pro- 
fession  of  epitaph-monger.1     As    you   did    not 

*  G  race  Joanna  here  doth  lie : 
R  eader,  wonder  not  that  I 
A  nte-date  her  hour  of  rest. 
C  an  I  thwart  her  wish  exprest, 
E  v'n  unseemly  though  the  laugh 

J  esting  with  an  Epitaph  ? 

0  n  her  bones  the  turf  lie  lightly, 
A  nd  her  rise  again  be  brightly! 

N  o  dark  stain  be  found  upon  her  — 
N  o,  there  will  not,  on  mine  honour  — 
A  nswer  that  at  least  I  can. 

Would  that  I,  thrice  happy  man, 

1  n  as  spotless  garb  might  rise, 
Light  as  she  will  climb  the  skies, 
L  eaving  the  dull  earth  behind, 

I  n  a  car  more  swift  than  wind. 
A  11  her  errors,  all  her  failings, 
(M  any  they  were  not)  and  ailings, 
S  leep  secure  from  Envy's  railings. 

228 


please  to  say  when  you  would  die,  I  have  left  a 
blank  space  for  the  date.  May  kind  heaven  be 
a  long  time  in  filling  it  up.  At  least  you  cannot 
say  that  these  lines  are  not  about  you,  though 
not  much  to  the  purpose.  We  were  very  sorry 
to  hear  that  you  have  not  been  very  well,  and 
hope  that  a  little  excursion  may  revive  you.  Miss 
Isola  is  thankful  for  her  added  day ;  but  I  verily 
think  she  longs  to  see  her  young  friends  once 
more,  and  will  regret  less  than  ever  the  end  of 
her  holydays.  She  cannot  be  going  on  more 
quietly  than  she  is  doing  here,  and  you  will  per- 
ceive amendment. 

I  hope  all  her  little  commissions  will  all  be 
brought  home  to  your  satisfaction.  When  she 
returns,  we  purpose  seeing  her  to  Epping  on  her 
journey.  We  have  had  our  proportion  of  fine 
weather  and  some  pleasant  walks,  and  she  is 
stronger,  her  appetite  good,  but  less  wolfish  than 
at  first,  which  we  hold  a  good  sign.  I  hope  Mr. 
Wing  will  approve  of  its  abatement.  She  de- 
sires her  very  kindest  respects  to  Mr.  Williams 
and  yourself,  and  wishes  to  rejoin  you.  My 
sister  and  myself  join  in  respect,  and  pray  tell 
Mr.  Donne,  with  our  compliments,  that  we 
shall  be  disappointed,  if  we  do  not  see  him. 

This  letter  being  very  neatly  written,  I  am 
very  unwilling  that  Emma  should  club  any  of 
her  disproportionate  scrawl  to  deface  it. 
Your  obliged  servant, 

C.  Lamb 
229 


DCXXXVI.  — TO    BASIL   MONTAGUE 

Dear  B.  M.,  — You  are  a  kind  soul  of  your- 
self, and  need  no  spurring,  but  if  you  can  help  a 
worthy  man  you  will  have  two  worthy  men  obliged 
to  you.  I  am  writing  from  Hone's  possible  Cof- 
fee-House,  which  must  answer,  if  he  can  find 
means  to  open  it,  which  unfortunately  flag.  We 
purpose  a  little  subscription,  but  I  know  how 
tender  a  subject  the  pocket  is.  Your  advice  may 
be  important  to  him. 

Yours  most  truly,  C.  Lamb 

This  is  a  letter  of  business,  so  I  won't  send 
unseasonable  love  to  Mrs.  Montague  and  the 
both  good  Proctors. 

DCXXXVII.  — TO   ROBERT   SOUTHEY 

May  10,  1830. 

Dear  Southey,  —  My  friend  Hone,  whom  you 
would  like  for  a  friend,  I  found  deeply  impressed 
with  your  generous  notice  of  him  in  your  beauti- 
ful Life  of  Bunyan,  which  I  am  just  now  full  of. 
He  has  written  to  you  for  leave  to  publish  a 
certain  good-natured  letter.  I  write  not  this  to 
enforce  his  request,  for  we  are  fully  aware  that  the 
refusal  of  such  publication  would  be  quite  con- 
sistent with  all  that  is  good  in  your  character. 
Neither  he  nor  I  expect  it  from  you,  nor  exact 
it ;   but  if  you  would  consent  to  it,  you  would 

230 


have  me  obliged  by  it,  as  well  as  him.  He  is  just 
now  in  a  critical  situation :  kind  friends  have 
opened  a  coffee-house  for  him  in  the  city,  but 
their  means  have  not  extended  to  the  purchase 
of  coffee-pots,  credit  for  reviews,  newspapers,  and 
other  paraphernalia.  So  I  am  sitting  in  the  skele- 
ton of  a  possible  divan.  What  right  I  have  to 
interfere,  you  best  know.  Look  on  me  as  a  dog 
who  went  once  temporarily  insane,  and  bit  you, 
and  now  begs  for  a  crust.  Will  you  set  your  wits 
to  a  dog  ?  Our  object  is  to  open  a  subscription, 
which  my  friends  of  the  Times  are  most  willing 
to  forward  for  him,  but  think  that  a  leave  from 
you  to  publish  would  aid  it. 

But  not  an  atom  of  respect  or  kindness  will  or 
shall  it  abate  in  either  of  us  if  you  decline  it. 
Have  this  strongly  in  your  mind. 

Those  Every-Day  and  Table  Books  will  be  a 
treasure  a  hundred  years  hence  ;  but  they  have 
failed  to  make  Hone's  fortune. 

Here  his  wife  and  all  his  children  are  about 
me,  gaping  for  coffee  customers  ;  but  how  should 
they  come  in,  seeing  no  pot  boiling  ! 

Enough  of  Hone.  I  saw  Coleridge  a  day  or 
two  since.  He  has  had  some  severe  attack,  not 
paralytic  ;  but,  if  I  had  not  heard  of  it,  I  should 
not  have  found  it  out.  He  looks,  and  especially 
speaks,  strong.  How  are  all  the  Wordsworths 
and  all  the  Southeys  ?  whom  I  am  obliged  to  you 
if  you  have  not  brought  up  haters  of  the  name  of 

C.  Lamb 
231 


P.  S.  I  have  gone  lately  into  the  acrostic 
line.  I  find  genius  (such  as  I  had)  declines  with 
me,  but  I  get  clever.  Do  you  know  anybody 
that  wants  charades,  or  such  things,  for  al- 
bums ?  I  do  'em  at  so  much  a  sheet.  Perhaps 
an  epigram  (not  a  very  happy-gram)  I  did  for 
a  school-boy  yesterday  may  amuse.  I  pray  Jove 
he  may  not  get  a  flogging  for  any  false  quan- 
tity ;  but  't  is,  with  one  exception,  the  only 
Latin  verses  I  have  made  for  forty  years,  and  I 
did  it  "  to  order." 

SUUM    CUIQUE 

Adsciscit  sibi  divitias  et  opes  alienas 

Fur,  rapiens,  spolians,  quod  mihi,  quodque  tibi, 

Proprium  erat,  temnens  haec  verba,  meumque,  suumque  ; 
Omne  suum  est :   tandem  cuique  suum  tribuit. 

Dat  laqueo  collum;  vestes,  vah  !  carnifici  dat; 
Sese  Diabolo:   sic  bene:  cuique  suum. 

I  write  from  Hone's,  therefore  Mary  cannot 
send  her  love  to  Mrs.  Southey,  but  I  do. 

Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

DCXXXVIII.  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

May  12,  1830. 

Dear  M.,  —  I  dined  with  your  and  my  Rogers 
at  Mr.  Cary's  yesterday.  Cary  consulted  me  on 
the  proper  bookseller  to  offer  a  lady's  MS.  novel 
to.  I  said  I  would  write  to  you.  But  I  wish  you 
would  call  on  the  translator  of  Dante  at  the 
British   Museum,  and   talk   with  him.     He  is 

232 


the  pleasantest  of  clergymen.  I  told  him  of  all 
Rogers's  handsome  behaviour  to  you,  and  you 
are  already  no  stranger.  Go.  I  made  Rogers 
laugh  about  your  nightingale  sonnet,  not  having 
heard  one.  'T  is  a  good  sonnet  notwithstanding. 
You  shall  have  the  books  shortly.  C.  L. 

DCXXXIX.  — TO    VINCENT   NOVELLO 

May  14,  1830. 

Dear  Novello,  —  Mary  hopes  you  have  not 
forgot  you  are  to  spend  a  day  with  us  on  Wednes- 
day. That  it  may  be  a  long  one,  cannot  you 
secure  places  now  for  Mrs.  Novello,  yourself,  and 
the  Clarkes  ?  We  have  just  table  room  for  four. 
Five  make  my  good  landlady  fidgetty ;  six,  to 
begin  to  fret ;  seven,  to  approximate  to  fever 
point.  But  seriously  we  shall  prefer  four  to  two 
or  three ;  we  shall  have  from  half-past  ten  to 
six,  when  the  coach  goes  off,  to  scent  the  coun- 
try. And  pray  write  now,  to  say  you  do  so  come, 
for  dear  Mrs.  Westwood  else  will  be  on  the  ten- 
ters of  incertitude.  C.  Lamb 

DCXL.  — TO  VINCENT  NOVELLO 

May  20,  1830. 

Dear  N.,  —  Pray  write  immediately  to  say 
"  The  book  has  come  safe."  I  am  anxious,  not 
so  much  for  the  autographs,  as  for  that  bit  of 
the  hair-brush.    I  enclose  a  cinder,  which  be- 

233 


longed  to  Shield,  when  he  was  poor,  and  lit  his 
own  fires.  Any  memorial  of  a  great  musical 
genius,  I  know,  is  acceptable ;  and  Shield  has 
his  merits,  though  Clementi,  in  my  opinion,  is 
far  above  him  in  the  sostenuto.  Mr.  Westwood 
desires  his  compliments,  and  begs  to  present  you 
with  a  nail  that  came  out  of  Jomelli's  coffin, 
who  is  buried  at  Naples. 

DCXLI.  — TO  WILLIAM    HONE 

May  21,  1830. 

Dear  Hone,  —  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased 
to  see  this  letter.  Pray  if  you  have  time  to,  call 
on  Novello,  No.  66  Great  Queen  St.  I  am  anx- 
ious to  learn  whether  he  received  his  album 
I  sent  on  Friday  by  our  nine  o'clock  morning 
stage.  If  not,  beg  him  inquire  at  the  Old  Bell, 
Holborn. 

Charles  Lamb 

Southey  will  see  in  the  Times  all  we  proposed 
omitting  is  omitted. 

DCXLIL  — TO   WILLIAM   HONE 

May  21,  1830. 

Thanks  for  the  paper.  Much  better  an  entire 
letter  (exceptis  excipiendis)  than  extracts.  Put  me 
down  per  Moxhay.  C.  L. 

234 


DCXLIIL  — TO  SARAH  HAZLITT 

May  24,  1830. 

Dear  Sarah,  —  I  found  my  way  to  Northaw 
on  Thursday  and  a  very  good  woman  behind  a 
counter,  who  says  also  that  you  are  a  very  good 
lady,  but  that  the  woman  who  was  with  you 
was  naught.  These  things  may  be  so  or  not. 
I  did  not  accept  her  offered  glass  of  wine  (home- 
made, I  take  it),  but  craved  a  cup  of  ale,  with 
which  I  seasoned  a  slice  of  cold  Lamb  from  a 
sandwich  box,  which  I  ate  in  her  back  parlour, 
and  proceeded  for  Berkhampstead,  &c. ;  lost 
myself  over  a  heath,  and  had  a  day's  pleasure. 
I  wish  you  could  walk  as  I  do,  and  as  you  used 
to  do.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  are  so  poorly  ;  and, 
now  I  have  found  my  way,  I  wish  you  back  at 
Goody  Tomlinson's.  What  a  pretty  village  't  is  ! 
I  should  have  come  sooner,  but  was  waiting  a 
summons  to  Bury.  Well,  it  came,  and  I  found 
the  good  parson's  lady  (he  was  from  home)  ex- 
ceedingly hospitable. 

Poor  Emma,  the  first  moment  we  were  alone, 
took  me  into  a  corner,  and  said,  "Now,  pray, 
don't  drink ;  do  check  yourself  after  dinner,  for 
my  sake,  and  when  we  get  home  to  Enfield,  you 
shall  drink  as  much  as  ever  you  please,  and  I 
won't  say  a  word  about  it."  How  I  behaved, 
you  may  guess,  when  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams and  I  have  written  acrostics  on  each  other, 
and  she  hoped  that  she  should  have  "  no  reason 

235 


to  regret  Miss  Isola's  recovery,  by  its  depriving 
her  of  our  begun  correspondence."  Emma  stayed 
a  month  with  us,  and  has  gone  back  (in  toler- 
able health)  to  her  long  home,  for  she  comes 
not  again  for  a  twelvemonth. 

I  amused  Mrs.  Williams  with  an  occurrence 
on  our  road  to  Enfield.  We  travelled  with  one 
of  those  troublesome  fellow-passengers  in  a  stage- 
coach, that  is  called  a  well-informed  man.  For 
twenty  miles  we  discoursed  about  the  properties 
of  steam,  probabilities  of  carriages  by  ditto,  till 
all  my  science,  and  more  than  all,  was  exhausted, 
and  I  was  thinking  of  escaping  my  torment  by 
getting  up  on  the  outside,  when,  getting  into 
Bishops  Stortford,  my  gentleman,  spying  some 
farming  land,  put  an  unlucky  question  to  me : 
"  What  sort  of  a  crop  of  turnips  I  thought  we 
should  have  this  year?"  Emma's  eyes  turned 
to  me,  to  know  what  in  the  world  I  could  have 
to  say;  and  she  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter, 
maugre  her  pale,  serious  cheeks,  when,  with  the 
greatest  gravity,  I  replied,  that  "  it  depended,  I 
believed,  upon  boiled  legs  of  mutton."  This 
clinch'd  our  conversation ;  and  my  gentleman, 
with  a  face  half  wise,  half  in  scorn,  troubled  us 
with  no  more  conversation,  scientific  or  philo- 
sophical, for  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

Ayrton  was  here  yesterday,  and  as  learned  to 
the  full  as  my  fellow-traveller.  What  a  pity 
that  he  will  spoil  a  wit  and  a  devilish  pleasant 
fellow    (as   he   is)    by   wisdom !    He   talk'd   on 

236 


music ;  and  by  having  read  Hawkins  and  Burney 
recently  I  was  enabled  to  talk  of  names,  and 
show  more  knowledge  than  he  had  suspected  I 
possessed ;  and  in  the  end  he  begg'd  me  to  shape 
my  thoughts  upon  paper,  which  I  did  after  he 
was  gone,  and  sent  him. 

Martin  Burney  is  as  odd  as  ever.  We  had  a 
dispute  about  the  word  "  heir,"  which  I  con- 
tended was  pronounced  like  "  air;"  he  said  that 
might  be  in  common  parlance ;  or  that  we  might 
so  use  it,  speaking  of  the  Heir-at-Law,  a  comedy; 
but  that  in  the  law  courts  it  was  necessary  to 
give  it  a  full  aspiration,  and  to  say  Hayer ;  he 
thought  it  might  even  vitiate  a  cause,  if  a  counsel 
pronounced  it  otherwise.  In  conclusion,  he 
"  would  consult  Serjeant  Wilde ;  "  who  gave  it 
against  him.  Sometimes  he  falleth  into  the  water, 
sometimes  into  the  fire.  He  came  down  here, 
and  insisted  on  reading  Virgil's  Eneid  all  through 
with  me  (which  he  did),  because  a  counsel  mutr. 
know  Latin.  Another  time  he  read  out  all  the 
Gospel  of  St.  John,  because  Biblical  quotations 
are  very  emphatic  in  a  Court  of  Justice.  A  third 
time,  he  would  carve  a  fowl,  which  he  did  very 
ill-favouredly,  because  "  we  did  not  know  how 
indispensable  it  was  for  a  barrister  to  do  all  those 
sort  of  things  well.  Those  little  things  were  of 
more  consequence  than  we  supposed."  So  he 
goes  on,  harassing  about  the  way  to  prosperity, 
and  losing  it.  With  a  long  head,  but  somewhat 
a  wrong  one  —  harum-scarum.    Why  does  not 

237 


his  guardian  angel  look  to  him  ?    He  deserves 
one :   may  be,  he  has  tired  him  out. 

I  am  tired  with  this  long  scrawl,  but  I  thought 
in  your  exile,  you  might  like  a  letter. 

Commend  me  to  all  the  wonders  in  Derby- 
shire, and  tell  the  devil  I  humbly  kiss  —  my  hand 
to  him.  Yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb 

Mary's  love  ?  Yes.    Mary  Lamb  quite  well. 

DCXLIV.— TO  SARAH  HAZLITT 

June  3,  1830. 

Dear  Sarah,  —  I  named  your  thought  about 
William  to  his  father,  who  expressed  such  horror 
and  aversion  to  the  idea  of  his  singing  in  public 
that  I  cannot  meddle  in  it  directly  or  indirectly. 
Ayrton  is  a  kind  fellow,  and  if  you  chuse  to  con- 
sult him  by  letter,  or  otherwise,  he  will  give  you 
the  best  advice,  I  am  sure,  very  readily.  /  have 
no  doubt  that  M.  Burney's  objection  to  interfering 
was  the  same  with  mine. 

With  thanks  for  your  pleasant  long  letter, 
which  is  not  that  of  an  invalid,  and  sympathy 
for  your  sad  sufferings,  I  remain,  in  haste, 

Yours  truly 

Mary's  kindest  love. 

238 


DCXLV.  — TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

June  17,  1830. 

I  hereby  impower  Matilda  Hone  to  superin- 
tend daily  the  putting  into  the  twopenny  post 
the  Times  newspaper  of  the  day  before,  directed 
"Mr.  Lamb,  Enfield,"  which  shall  be  held  a 
full  and  sufficient  direction:  the  said  insertion  to 
commence  on  Monday  morning  next.  And  I 
do  engage  to  pay  to  William  Hone,  Coffee  and 
Hotel  Man,  the  quarterly  sum  of  ^1,  to  be  paid 
at  the  ordinary  Quarter  days,  or  thereabout,  for 
the  reversion  of  the  said  paper,  commencing 
with  the  24th  inst.,  or  Feast  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist; the  intervening  days  to  be  held  and  con- 
sidered as  nothing.  C.  Lamb 

Vivant  Coffee,  Coffee-potque ! 

DCXLVL  — TO  BERNARD  BARTON 

June  28,  1830. 

Dear  B.  B., —  Could  you  dream  of  my  pub- 
lishing without  sending  a  copy  to  you?  You  will 
find  something  new  to  you  in  the  volume,  par- 
ticularly the  translations.  Moxon  will  send  to 
you  the  moment  it  is  out.  He  is  the  young  poet 
of  Xmas,  whom  the  author  of  the  Pleasures  of 
Memory  [Rogers]  has  set  up  in  the  bookvending 
business  with  a  volunteer'd  loan  of  ^500  —  such 
munificence  is  rare  to  an  almost  stranger.    But 

239 


Rogers,  I  am  told,  has  done  many  good-natured 
things  of  this  nature. 

I  need  not  say  how  glad  to  see  A.  K.  and 
Lucy  we  should  have  been,  —  and  still  shall  be, 
if  it  be  practicable.  Our  direction  is  Mr.  West- 
wood's,  Chase  Side,  Enfield,  but  alas  !  I  know 
not  theirs.  We  can  give  them  a  bed.  Coaches 
come  daily  from  the  Bell,  Holborn. 

You  will  see  that  I  am  worn  to  the  poetical 
dregs,  condescending  to  acrostics,  which  are  nine 
fathom  beneath  album  verses  —  but  they  were 
written  at  the  request  of  the  lady  where  our 
Emma  is,  to  whom  I  paid  a  visit  in  April  to 
bring  home  Emma  for  a  change  of  air  after  a 
severe  illness,  in  which  she  had  been  treated  like 
a  daughter  by  the  good  parson  and  his  whole 
family.  She  has  since  return'd  to  her  occupa- 
tion. 

I  thought  on  you  in  Suffolk,  but  was  forty 
miles  from  Woodbridge.  I  heard  of  you  the 
other  day  from  Mr.  Pulham  of  the  India  House. 

Long  live  King  William  the  Fourth. 

S.  T.  C.  says,  we  have  had  wicked  kings,  fool- 
ish kings,  wise  kings,  good  kings  (but  few),  but 
never  till  now  have  we  had  a  blackguard  king. 

Charles  Second  was  profligate,  but  a  gentle- 
man. 

I  have  nineteen  letters  to  dispatch  this  leisure 
sabbath  for  Moxon  to  send  about  with  copies; 
so  you  will  forgive  me  short  measure,  —  and 
believe  me,  Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

240 


Pray  do  let  us  see  your  Quakeresses  if  possible. 
DCXLVIL  — TO   WILLIAM    HONE 

July  i,  1830. 

Pray  let  Matilda  keep  my  newspapers  till  you 
hear  from  me,  as  we  are  meditating  a  town  resi- 
dence. C.  Lamb 

Let  her  keep  them  as  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

DCXLVIIL  — TO  MRS.  RICKMAN 

1830. 

Dear  Mrs.  Rickman,  —  I  beg  your  acceptance 
of  a  little  volume,  which  may  amuse  either  of 
your  young  ladies.  It  pretends  to  no  high  flights, 
and  may  lie  about  with  albums,  shells,  and  such 
knicknacks.  Will  you  re-give,  or  lend  me,  by 
the  bearer,  the  one  volume  of  Juvenile  Poetry  ? 
I  have  tidings  of  a  second  at  Brighton.  If  the 
two  tally,  we  may  some  day  play  a  hand  at  old 
whist,  who  shall  have  both. 

With  best  regards  to  you  all,  yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb 

Any  little  commissions  in  the  book  line  from 
Mr.  Rickman,  or  any  of  your  friends,  will  be 
most  punctually  attended  to  by  my  friend  the 
publisher. 


241 


DCXLIX.  — TO    BERNARD    BARTON 

[p.  m.  August  30,  1830.] 

Dear  B.  B.,  —  My  address  is  34  Southampton 
Buildings,  Holborn.  For  God's  sake  do  not  let 
me  be  pester' d  with  Annuals.  They  are  all 
rogues  who  edit  them,  and  something  else  who 
write  in  them.  I  am  still  alone,  and  very  much 
out  of  sorts,  and  cannot  spur  up  my  mind  to 
writing.  The  sight  of  one  of  those  Tear  Books 
makes  me  sick.  I  get  nothing  by  any  of  'em, 
not  even  a  copy. 

Thank  you  for  your  warm  interest  about  my 
little  volume,  for  the  critics  on  which  I  care  not 
the  five-hundred-thousandth  part  of  the  tythe 
of  a  half-farthing.  I  am  too  old  a  militant  for 
that.  How  noble,  tho',  in  R.  S.  to  come  for- 
ward for  an  old  friend,  who  had  treated  him  so 
unworthily.  Moxon  has  a  shop  without  cus- 
tomers, I  a  book  without  readers.  But  what 
a  clamour  against  a  poor  collection  of  album 
verses,  as  if  we  had  put  forth  an  epic.  I  cannot 
scribble  a  long  letter — I  am,  when  not  at  foot, 
very  desolate,  and  take  no  interest  in  anything, 
scarce  hate  anything,  but  Annuals.  I  am  in  an 
interregnum  of  thought  and  feeling. 

What  a  beautiful  autumn  morning  this  is,  if  it 
was  but  with  me  as  in  times  past  when  the  candle 
of  the  Lord  shined  round  me. 

I  cannot  even  muster  enthusiasm  to  admire  the 
French  heroism. 

242 


In  better  times  I  hope  we  may  some  day  meet, 
and  discuss  an  old  poem  or  two.  But  if  you  'd 
have  me  not  sick,  no  more  of  Annuals. 

C.  L.  Ex-Elia 

Love  to  Lucy  and  A.  K.  always. 

DCL.  —  TO   SAMUEL   ROGERS 

October  5,  1830. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  know  not  what  hath  bewitch' d 
me  that  I  have  delayed  acknowledging  your  beau- 
tiful present.  But  I  have  been  very  unwell  and 
nervous  of  late.  The  poem  was  not  new  to  me, 
tho'  I  have  renewed  acquaintance  with  it.  Its 
metre  is  none  of  the  least  of  its  excellencies.  'T  is 
so  far  from  the  stiffness  of  blank  verse  —  it  gal- 
lops like  a  traveller,  as  it  should  do  —  no  crude 
Miltonisms  in  it.  Dare  I  pick  out  what  most 
pleases  me  ?  It  is  the  middle  paragraph  in  page 
thirty-four.  It  is  most  tasty.  Though  I  look  on 
every  impression  as  a  proof  of  your  kindness,  I  am 
jealous  of  the  ornaments,  and  should  have  prized 
the  verses  naked  on  whity-brown  paper. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

DCLI.  —  TO   VINCENT   NOVELLO 

November  8,  1830. 

Tears  are  for  lighter  griefs.    Man  weeps  the  doom 
That  seals  a  single  victim  to  the  tomb. 

243 


But  when  Death  riots,  when  with  whelming  sway 
Destruction  sweeps  a  family  away  ; 
When  Infancy  and  Youth,  a  huddled  mass, 
All  in  an  instant  to  oblivion  pass, 
And  Parents'  hopes  are  crush'd ;  what  lamentation 
Can  reach  the  depth  of  such  a  desolation  ? 
Look  upward,  Feeble  Ones  !  look  up,  and  trust 
That  He,  who  lays  this  mortal  frame  in  dust, 
Still  hath  the  immortal  Spirit  in  His  keeping. 
In  Jesus'  sight  they  are  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 

DearN., — Will  these  lines  do?  I  despair  of 
better.  Poor  Mary  is  in  a  deplorable  state  here 
at  Enfield.  Love  to  all,  C.  Lamb 

NOTE 

[The  four  sons  and  two  daughters  of  John  and  Ann  Rigg, 
of  York,  had  been  drowned  in  the  Ouse.  A  number  of  poets 
were  asked  for  verses,  the  best  to  be  inscribed  on  a  monument 
in  York  Minster.  Those  of  James  Montgomery  were  chosen. 
—  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DCLII.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

November  12,  1830. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  I  have  brought  my  sister  to 
Enfield,  being  sure  that  she  had  no  hope  of  re- 
covery in  London.  Her  state  of  mind  is  deplor- 
able beyond  any  example.  I  almost  fear  whether 
she  has  strength  at  her  time  of  life  ever  to  get  out 
of  it.  Here  she  must  be  nursed,  and  neither  see 
nor  hear  of  anything  in  the  world  out  of  her  sick 
chamber.  The  mere  hearing  that  Southey  had 
called  at  our  lodgings  totally  upset  her.    Pray  see 

244 


him,  or  hear  of  him  at  Mr.  Rickman's,  and  ex- 
cuse my  not  writing  to  him.  I  dare  not  write  or 
receive  a  letter  in  her  presence ;  every  little  task 
so  agitates  her.  Westwood  will  receive  any  letter 
for  me,  and  give  it  me  privately.  Pray  assure 
Southey  of  my  kindliest  feelings  towards  him; 
and,  if  you  do  not  see  him,  send  this  to  him. 

Kindest  remembrances  to  your  sister,  and  be- 
lieve me  ever  yours,  C.  Lamb 

Remember  me  kindly  to  the  Allsops. 

DCLIIL— TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

December,  1830. 

Dear  M.,  —  Something  like  this  was  what  I 
meant.  But  on  reading  it  over,  I  see  no  great  fun 
or  use  in  it.  It  will  only  stuff  up  and  encroach 
upon  the  sheet  you  propose.  Do  as,  and  what, 
you  please.  Send  proof,  or  not,  as  you  like.  If 
you  send,  send  me  a  copy  or  two  of  the  Album 
Verses,  and  the  Juvenile  Poetry,  if  bound. 

I  am  happy  to  say  Mary  is  mending,  but  not 
enough  to  give  me  hopes  of  being  able  to  leave 
her.  I  sadly  regret  that  I  shall  possibly  not  see 
Southey  or  Wordsworth,  but  I  dare  not  invite 
either  of  them  here,  for  fear  of  exciting  my  sis- 
ter, whose  only  chance  is  quiet.  You  don't  know 
in  what  a  sad  state  we  have  been. 

I  think  the  Devil  may  come  out  without  pre- 
faces, but  use  your  discretion. 

245 


Make  my  kindest  remembrances  to  Southey, 
with  my  heart's  thanks  for  his  kind  intent.  I 
am  a  little  easier  about  my  will,  and  as  Ryle  is 
executor,  and  will  do  all  a  friend  can  do  at  the 
Office,  and  what  little  I  leave  will  buy  an  annu- 
ity to  piece  out  tolerably,  I  am  much  easier. 
Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

DCLIV.  — TO   GEORGE   DYER 

December  20,  1830. 

Dear  Dyer,  —  I  would  have  written  before  to 
thank  you  for  your  kind  letter,  written  with  your 
own  hand.  It  glads  us  to  see  your  writing.  It 
will  give  you  pleasure  to  hear  that,  after  so  much 
illness,  we  are  in  tolerable  health  and  spirits  once 
more.  Miss  Isola  intended  to  call  upon  you  after 
her  night's  lodging  at  Miss  Buffam's,  but  found 
she  was  too  late  for  the  stage.  If  she  comes  to 
town  before  she  goes  home,  she  will  not  miss 
paying  her  respects  to  Mrs.  Dyer  and  you,  to 
whom  she  desires  best  love. 

Poor  Enfield,  that  has  been  so  peaceable 
hitherto,  has  caught  the  inflammatory  fever ;  the 
tokens  are  upon  her  !  and  a  great  fire  was  blazing 
last  night  in  the  barns  and  haystacks  of  a  farmer, 
about  half  a  mile  from  us.  Where  will  these 
things  end  ?  There  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  the 
work  of  some  ill-disposed  rustic  ;  but  how  is  he 
to  be  discovered  ?  They  go  to  work  in  the  dark 
with  strange  chemical  preparations  unknown  to 

246 


our  forefathers.  There  is  not  even  a  dark  lantern 
to  have  a  chance  of  detecting  these  Guy  Fauxes. 
We  are  past  the  iron  age,  and  are  got  into  the 
fiery  age,  undream' d  of  by  Ovid.  You  are  lucky 
in  Clifford's  Inn  where,  I  think,  you  have  few 
ricks  or  stacks  worth  the  burning.  Pray  keep  as 
little  corn  by  you  as  you  can,  for  fear  of  the 
worst. 

It  was  never  good  times  in  England  since  the 
poor  began  to  speculate  upon  their  condition. 
Formerly,  they  jogged  on  with  as  little  reflection 
as  horses  :  the  whistling  ploughman  went  cheek 
by  jowl  with  his  brother  that  neighed.  Now  the 
biped  carries  a  box  of  phosphorus  in  his  leather 
breeches  ;  and  in  the  dead  of  night  the  half- 
illuminated  beast  steals  his  magic  potion  into 
a  cleft  in  a  barn,  and  half  a  country  is  grinning 
with  new  fires.  Farmer  Graystock  said  some- 
thing to  the  touchy  rustic  that  he  did  not  relish, 
and  he  writes  his  distaste  in  flames.  What  a 
power  to  intoxicate  his  crude  brains,  just  mud- 
dlingly  awake,  to  perceive  that  something  is 
wrong  in  the  social  system  !  —  what  a  hellish 
faculty  above  gunpowder ! 

Now  the  rich  and  poor  are  fairly  pitted,  we 
shall  see  who  can  hang  or  burn  fastest.  It  is  not 
always  revenge  that  stimulates  these  kindlings. 
There  is  a  love  of  exerting  mischief.  Think  of 
a  disrespected  clod  that  was  trod  into  earth,  that 
was  nothing,  on  a  sudden  by  damned  arts  refined 
into  an  exterminating  angel,  devouring  the  fruits 

247 


of  the  earth  and  their  growers  in  a  mass  of  fire ! 
What  a  new  existence  !  —  what  a  temptation 
above  Lucifer's !  Would  clod  be  anything  but 
a  clod,  if  he  could  resist  it?  Why,  here  was 
a  spectacle  last  night  for  a  whole  country  !  —  a 
bonfire  visible  to  London,  alarming  her  guilty 
towers,  and  shaking  the  Monument  with  an  ague 
fit,  —  all  done  by  a  little  vial  of  phosphor  in  a 
clown's  fob  !  How  he  must  grin,  and  shake  his 
empty  noddle  in  clouds,  the  Vulcanian  epicure ! 
Can  we  ring  the  bells  backward  ?  Can  we  un- 
learn the  arts  that  pretend  to  civilize,  and  then 
burn  the  world  ?  There  is  a  march  of  science ; 
but  who  shall  beat  the  drums  for  its  retreat? 
Who  shall  persuade  the  boor  that  phosphor  will 
not  ignite  ? 

Seven  goodly  stacks  of  hay,  with  corn-barns 
proportionable,  lie  smoking  ashes  and  chaff",  which 
man  and  beast  would  sputter  out  and  reject  like 
those  apples  of  asphaltes  and  bitumen.  The  food 
for  the  inhabitants  of  earth  will  quickly  disap- 
pear. Hot  rolls  may  say :  "  Fuimus  panes,  fuit 
quartern-loaf,  et  ingens  gloria  apple-pasty- 
orum."  That  the  good  old  munching  system 
may  last  thy  time  and  mine,  good  un-incendiary 
George,  is  the  devout  prayer  of  thine,  to  the  last 
crust,  Ch.  Lamb 


note 


[Incendiarism,  the  result  of  agricultural  distress  and  in 
opposition  to  the  competition  of  the  new  machinery,  was  rife 
in  the  country  at  this  time.] 

248 


DCLV.  — TO  EDWARD   MOXON 

Christmas,  1830. 

Dear  M.,  —  A  thousand  thanks  for  your  punc- 
tualities. What  a  cheap  book  is  the  last  Hogarth 
you  sent  me  !  I  am  pleased  now  that  Hunt  did- 
dled me  out  of  the  old  one.  Speaking  of  this, 
only  think  of  the  new  farmer  with  his  thirty 
acres.  There  is  a  portion  of  land  in  Lambeth 
parish  called  Knaves  Acre.  I  wonder  he  over- 
look'd  it.  Don't  show  this  to  the  firm  of  Dilk  & 
Co.  I  next  want  one  copy  of  Leicester  School, 
and  wish  you  to  pay  Leishman,  Taylor,  2  Bland- 
ford  Place,  Pall  Mall,  opposite  the  British  Insti- 
tution, ^6.10.  for  coat,  waistcoat,  &c.  And  I 
vehemently  thirst  for  the  4th  No.  of  Nichols's 
Hogarth,  to  bind  'em  up  (the  two  books)  as 
Hogarth,  and  Supplement.  But  as  you  know  the 
price,  don't  stay  for  its  appearance ;  but  come  as 
soon  as  ever  you  can  with  your  bill  of  all  de- 
mands in  full,  and,  as  I  have  none  but  £$  notes, 
bring  with  you  sufficient  change. 

Weather  is  beautiful.  I  grieve  sadly  for  Miss 
Wordsworth.  We  are  all  well  again.  Emma  is 
with  us,  and  we  all  shall  be  glad  of  a  sight  of 
you.  Come  on  Sunday,  if  you  can ;  better,  if  you 
come  before.  Perhaps  Rogers  would  smile  at 
this.  A  pert  half  chemist  half  apothecary,  in  our 
town,  who  smatters  of  literature  and  is  immeas- 
urable unletter'd,  said  to  me,  "Pray,  Sir,  may 
not  Hood  (he  of  the  acres)   be  reckon'd  the 

249 


prince  of  wits  in  the  present  day?"  to  which  I 
assenting,  he  adds,  "  I  had  always  thought  that 
Rogers  had  been  reckon'd  the  prince  of  wits,  but 
I  suppose  that  now  Mr.  Hood  has  the  better  title 
to  that  appellation."  To  which  I  replied  that 
Mr.  R.  had  wit  with  much  better  qualities,  but 
did  not  aspire  to  the  principality.  He  had  taken 
all  the  puns  manufactured  in  "John  Bull  for  our 
friend,  in  sad  and  stupid  earnest.  One  more 
album  verses,  please.    Adieu.  C.  L. 

DCLVI.  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

February  3,  1831. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  The  snows  are  ancle-deep 
slush  and  mire,  that 't  is  hard  to  get  to  the  post- 
office,  and  cruel  to  send  the  maid  out.  'T  is  a 
slough  of  despair,  or  I  should  sooner  have  thank'd 
you  for  your  offer  of  the  Life,  which  we  shall 
very  much  like  to  have,  and  will  return  duly. 
I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  be  in  town,  but  in 
a  week  or  two  at  farthest,  when  I  will  come  as 
far  as  you  if  I  can.  We  are  moped  to  death  with 
confinement  within  doors.  I  send  you  a  curi- 
osity of  G.  Dyer's  tender  conscience.  Between 
thirty  and  forty  years  since,  G.  published  the 
Poet's  Fate,  in  which  were  two  very  harmless 
lines  about  Mr.  Rogers,  but  Mr.  R.  not  quite 
approving  of  them,  they  were  left  out  in  a  sub- 
sequent edition,  1801.  But  G.  has  been  worry t- 
ing  about  them  ever  since ;  if  I  have  heard  him 

250 


once,  I  have  heard  him  a  hundred  times,  express 
a  remorse  proportion' d  to  a  consciousness  of 
having  been  guilty  of  an  atrocious  libel.  As  the 
devil  would  have  it,  a  fool  they  call  Barker,  in 
his  Parriana  has  quoted  the  identical  two  lines 
as  they  stood  in  some  obscure  edition  anterior 
to  1 80 1,  and  the  withers  of  poor  G.  are  again 
wrung.  His  letter  is  a  gem ;  with  his  poor 
blind  eyes  it  has  been  laboured  out  at  six  sit- 
tings. The  history  of  the  couplet  is  in  page 
three  of  this  irregular  production,  in  which  every 
variety  of  shape  and  size  that  letters  can  be 
twisted  into  is  to  be  found.  Do  shew  his  part 
of  it  to  Mr.  R.  some  day.  If  he  has  bowels 
they  must  melt  at  the  contrition  so  queerly  char- 
acter'd  of  a  contrite  sinner.  G.  was  born  I  verily 
think  without  original  sin,  but  chuses  to  have 
a  conscience,  as  every  Christian  gentleman  should 
have.  His  dear  old  face  is  insusceptible  of  the 
twist  they  call  a  sneer,  yet  he  is  apprehensive  of 
being  suspected  of  that  ugly  appearance.  When 
he  makes  a  compliment,  he  thinks  he  has  given 
an  affront.  A  name  is  personality.  But  shew  (no 
hurry)  this  unique  recantation  to  Mr.  R.  'Tis 
like  a  dirty  pocket  handkerchief  muck'd  with 
tears  of  some  indigent  Magdalen.  There  is  the 
impress  of  sincerity  in  every  pot-hook  and  hanger. 
And  then  the  gilt  frame  to  such  a  pauper  picture  ! 
It  should  go  into  the  Museum. 

I  am  heartily  sorry  my  Devil  does  not  answer. 
We  must  try  it  a  little  longer,  and  after  all  I 

251 


think  I  must  insist  on  taking  a  portion  of  the 
loss  upon  myself.  It  is  too  much  you  should 
lose  by  two  adventures.  You  do  not  say  how 
your  general  business  goes  on,  and  I  should  very 
much  like  to  talk  over  it  with  you  here.  Come 
when  the  weather  will  possibly  let  you.  I  want 
to  see  the  Wordsworths,  but  I  do  not  much  like 
to  be  all  night  away.  It  is  dull  enough  to  be 
here  together,  but  it  is  duller  to  leave  Mary ;  in 
short  it  is  painful,  and  in  a  flying  visit  I  should 
hardly  catch  them.  I  have  no  beds  for  them, 
if  they  came  down,  and  but  a  sort  of  a  house  to 
receive  them  in,  yet  I  shall  regret  their  depart- 
ure unseen.  I  feel  cramped  and  straiten'd  every 
way.    Where  are  they  ? 

We  have  heard  from  Emma  but  once,  and  that 
a  month  ago,  and  are  very  anxious  for  another 
letter. 

You  say  we  have  forgot  your  powers  of  being 
serviceable  to  us.  That  we  never  shall.  I  do  not 
know  what  I  should  do  without  you  when  I  want 
a  little  commission.  Now  then.  There  are  left 
at  Miss  Buffam's,  the  Tales  of  the  Castle,  and 
certain  volumes  Retrospective  Review.  The  first 
should  be  convey'd  to  Novello's,  and  the  Reviews 
should  be  taken  to  Talfourd's  office,  ground  floor, 
East  side,  Elm  Court,  Middle  Temple,  to  whom 
I  should  have  written,  but  my  spirits  are  wretched. 
It  is  quite  an  effort  to  write  this.  So,  with  the 
Life,  I  have  cut  you  out  three  pieces  of  service. 
What  can  I  do  for  you  here  ?    But  hope  to  see 

252 


you  very  soon,  and  think  of  you  with  most  kind- 
ness. I  fear  to-morrow,  between  rains  and  snows, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  expect  you,  but  do  not 
let  a  practicable  Sunday  pass.  We  are  always  at 
home. 

Mary  joins  in  remembrances  to  your  sister, 
whom  we  hope  to  see  in  any  fine-ish  weather, 
when  she  '11  venture. 

Remember  us  to  Allsop,  and  all  the  dead  peo- 
ple —  to  whom,  and  to  London,  we  seem  dead. 

DCLVII.  —  TO  GEORGE  DYER 

February  22,  183 1. 

Dear  Dyer,  —  Mr.  Rogers,  and  Mr.  Rogers's 
friends,  are  perfectly  assured  that  you  never  in- 
tended any  harm  by  an  innocent  couplet,  and  that 
in  the  revivification  of  it  by  blundering  Barker 
you  had  no  hand  whatever.  To  imagine  that,  at 
this  time  of  day,  Rogers  broods  over  a  fantastic 
expression  of  more  than  thirty  years'  standing, 
would  be  to  suppose  him  indulging  his  Pleasures 
of  Memory  with  a  vengeance.  You  never  penned 
a  line  which  for  its  own  sake  you  need  (dying) 
wish  to  blot.  You  mistake  your  heart  if  you  think 
you  can  write  a  lampoon.  Your  whips  are  rods 
of  roses.  Your  spleen  has  ever  had  for  its  objects 
vices,  not  the  vicious  —  abstract  offences,  not  the 
concrete  sinner.  But  you  are  sensitive,  and  wince 
as  much  at  the  consciousness  of  having  commit- 
ted a  compliment,  as  another  man  would  at  the 

253 


perpetration  of  an  affront.  But  do  not  lug  me 
into  the  same  soreness  of  conscience  with  your- 
self. I  maintain,  and  will  to  the  last  hour,  that 
I  never  writ  of  you  but  con  amore.  That  if  any 
allusion  was  made  to  your  near-sightedness,  it  was 
not  for  the  purpose  of  mocking  an  infirmity,  but 
of  connecting  it  with  scholar-like  habits :  for 
is  it  not  erudite  and  scholarly  to  be  somewhat 
near  of  sight,  before  age  naturally  brings  on  the 
malady  ?  You  could  not  then  plead  the  obrepens 
senectus. 

Did  I  not  moreover  make  it  an  apology  for 
a  certain  absence,  which  some  of  your  friends  may 
have  experienced,  when  you  have  not  on  a  sud- 
den made  recognition  of  them  in  a  casual  street- 
meeting,  and  did  I  not  strengthen  your  excuse  for 
this  slowness  of  recognition,  by  further  account- 
ing morally  for  the  present  engagement  of  your 
mind  in  worthy  objects  ?  Did  I  not,  in  your  per- 
son, make  the  handsomest  apology  for  absent-of- 
mind  people  that  was  ever  made  ?  If  these  things 
be  not  so,  I  never  knew  what  I  wrote  or  meant 
by  my  writing,  and  have  been  penning  libels  all 
my  life  without  being  aware  of  it.  Does  it  fol- 
low that  I  should  have  exprest  myself  exactly 
in  the  same  way  of  those  dear  old  eyes  of  yours 
now — now  that  Father  Time  has  conspired  with 
a  hard  task-master  to  put  a  last  extinguisher  upon 
them  ?  I  should  as  soon  have  insulted  the  an- 
swerer of  Salmasius  [Milton],  when  he  awoke 
up  from  his  ended  task,  and  saw  no  more  with 

254 


mortal  vision.  But  you  are  many  films  removed 
yet  from  Milton's  calamity.  You  write  perfectly 
intelligibly.  Marry,  the  letters  are  not  all  of  the 
same  size  or  tallness  ;  but  that  only  shows  your 
proficiency  in  the  hands  —  text,  german-hand, 
court-hand,  sometimes  law-hand,  and  afford  vari- 
ety. You  pen  better  than  you  did  a  twelvemonth 
ago  ;  and  if  you  continue  to  improve,  you  bid 
fair  to  win  the  golden  pen  which  is  the  prize  at 
your  young  gentlemen's  academy.  But  you  must 
beware  of  Valpy,  and  his  printing-house,  that 
hazy  cave  of  Trophonius,  out  of  which  it  was  a 
mercy  that  you  escaped  with  a  glimmer.  Beware 
of  MSS.  and  variae  lectiones.  Settle  the  text  for 
once  in  your  mind,  and  stick  to  it.  You  have  some 
years'  good  sight  in  you  yet,  if  you  do  not  tamper 
with  it.  It  is  not  for  you  (for  us  I  should  say) 
to  go  poring  into  Greek  contractions,  and  star- 
gazing upon  slim  Hebrew  points.  We  have  yet 
the  sight 

Of  sun,  and  moon,  and  star,  throughout  the  year, 
And  man  and  woman. 

You  have  vision  enough  to  discern  Mrs.  Dyer 
from  the  other  comely  gentlewoman  who  lives  up 
at  staircase  No.  5  ;  or,  if  you  should  make  a  blun- 
der in  the  twilight,  Mrs.  Dyer  has  too  much 
good  sense  to  be  jealous  for  a  mere  effect  of  im- 
perfect optics.  But  don't  try  to  write  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  Creed,  and  Ten  Commandments,  in  the 
compass  of  a  halfpenny  ;  nor  run  after  a  midge 
or  a  mote  to  catch  it ;  and  leave  off  hunting  for 

255 


needles  in  bushels  of  hay,  for  all  these  things 
strain  the  eyes.  The  snow  is  six  feet  deep  in 
some  parts  here.  I  must  put  on  jack-boots  to 
get  at  the  post-office  with  this.  It  is  not  good 
for  weak  eyes  to  pore  upon  snow  too  much.  It 
lies  in  drifts.  I  wonder  what  its  drift  is ;  only 
that  it  makes  good  pancakes,  remind  Mrs.  Dyer. 
It  turns  a  pretty  green  world  into  a  white  one. 
It  glares  too  much  for  an  innocent  colour,  me- 
thinks. 

I  wonder  why  you  think  I  dislike  gilt  edges. 
They  set  off  a  letter  marvellously.  Yours,  for 
instance,  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  tablet  of 
curious  hieroglyphics  in  a  gold  frame.  But  don't 
go  and  lay  this  to  your  eyes.  You  always  wrote 
hieroglyphically,  yet  not  to  come  up  to  the 
mystical  notations  and  conjuring  characters  of 
Dr.  Parr.  You  never  wrote  what  I  call  a  school- 
master's hand,  like  Clarke  ;  nor  a  woman's  hand, 
like  Southey ;  nor  a  missal  hand,  like  Porson ; 
nor  an  all-of-the-wrong-side-sloping  hand,  like 
Miss  Hayes  ;  nor  a  dogmatic,  Mede-and-Persian, 
peremptory  hand,  like  Rickman  ;  but  you  ever 
wrote  what  I  call  a  Grecian's  hand ;  what  the 
Grecians  write  (or  used)  at  Christ's  Hospital; 
such  as  Whalley  would  have  admired,  and  Boyer 
have  applauded  ;  but  Smith  or  Atwood  (writing- 
masters)  would  have  horsed  you  for.  Your  boy- 
of-genius  hand  and  your  mercantile  hand  are 
various.  By  your  flourishes,  I  should  think  you 
never  learned  to  make  eagles  or  corkscrews,  or 

256 


flourish  the  governors'  names  in  the  writing- 
school  ;  and  by  the  tenor  and  cut  of  your  letters 
I  suspect  you  were  never  in  it  at  all.  By  the 
length  of  this  scrawl  you  will  think  I  have  a 
design  upon  your  optics ;  but  I  have  writ  as 
large  as  I  could  out  of  respect  to  them  —  too 
large,  indeed,  for  beauty.  Mine  is  a  sort  of 
deputy  Grecian's  hand ;  a  little  better,  and  more 
of  a  worldly  hand,  than  a  Grecian's,  but  still 
remote  from  the  mercantile.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  I  keep  my  rank  in  fancy  still  since 
school-days.  I  can  never  forget  I  was  a  deputy 
Grecian !  And  writing  to  you,  or  to  Coleridge, 
besides  affection,  I  feel  a  reverential  deference 
as  to  Grecians  still.  I  keep  my  soaring  way  above 
the  Great  Erasmians,  yet  far  beneath  the  other. 
Alas !  what  am  I  now  ?  what  is  a  Leadenhall 
clerk  or  India  pensioner  to  a  deputy  Grecian  ? 
How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !  Just  room  for 
our  loves  to  Mrs.  D.,  &c,  C.  Lamb 

DCLVIII.— TO    HENRY   F.  CARY 

April  13,1831. 

Dear  C, —  I  am  daily  for  this  week  expect- 
ing Wordsworth,  who  will  not  name  a  day.  I 
have  been  expecting  him  by  months  and  by 
weeks  ;  but  he  has  reduced  the  hope  within  the 
seven  fractions  hebdomidal  of  this  hebdoma. 
Therefore  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  see  you  on 
Thursday.    I  think  within  a  week  or  two  I  shall 

257 


be  able  to  invite  myself  some  day  for  a  day,  but 
we  hermits  with  difficulty  poke  out  of  our  shells. 
Within  that  ostraceous  retirement  I  meditate 
not  unfrequently  on  you.  My  sister's  kindest 
remembrances  to  you  both.  C.  L. 

DCLIX.  — TO   BERNARD   BARTON 

April  30,  1 83 1. 

Vir  bone !  —  Recepi  literas  tuas  amicissimas,  et 
in  mentem  venit  responsuro  mihi,  vel  raro,  vel  nun- 
quam,  inter  nos  intercedisse  Latinam  linguam, 
organum  rescribendi,  loquendive.  Epistolae  tuae, 
Plinianis  elegantiis  (supra  quod  Tremulo  deceat) 
refertae,  tarn  a  verbis  Plinianis  adeo  abhorrent,  ut 
ne  vocem  quamquam  (Romanam  scilicet)  habere 
videaris,  quam  "ad  canem,"  ut  aiunt,  "  reiectare 
possis."  Forsan  desuetudo  Latinissandi  ad  ver- 
naculam  linguam  usitandam,  plusquam  opus  sit, 
coegit.  Per  adagia  quaedam  nota,  et  in  ore  om- 
nium pervulgata,  ad  Latinitatis  perditae  recuper- 
ationem  revocare  te  institui. 

Felis  in  abaco  est,  et  aegre  videt. 

Omne  quod  splendet  nequaquam  aurum  putes. 

Imponas  equo  mendicum,  equitabit  idem  ad 
diabolum. 

Fur  commode  a  fure  prenditur. 

O  Maria,  Maria,  valde  contraria,  quomodo 
crescit  hortulus  tuus  ? 

Nunc  maiora  canamus. 

Thomas,  Thomas,  de  Islington,  uxorem  duxit 
258 


die  nupera  Dominica.  Reduxit  domum  postera. 
Succedenti  baculum  emit.  Postridie  ferit  illam. 
Aegrescit  ilia  subsequent.  Proxima  (nempe 
Veneris)  est  mortua.  Plurimum  gestiit  Thomas, 
quod  appropinquanti  Sabbato  efferenda  sit. 

Horner  quidam  Iohannulus  in  angulo  sedebat, 
artocreas  quasdam  deglutiens.  Inseruit  pollices, 
pruna  nana  evellens,  et  magna  voce  exclamavit 
"  Dii  boni,  quam  bonus  puer  no !  " 

Diddle-diddle-dumkins !  meus  unicus  filius  Io- 
hannes  cubitum  ivit,  integris  braccis,  caliga  una 
tantum,  indutus.    Diddle-diddle,  etc.    Da  Capo. 

Hie  adsum  saltans  Ioannula.  Cum  nemo  adsit 
mihi,  semper  resto  sola. 

Aenigma  mihi  hoc  solvas,  et  Oedipus  fies. 

Qua  ratione  assimulandus  sit  equus  Tremulo  ? 

Quippe  cui  tota  communicatio  sit  per  Hay  et 
Neigh,  iuxta  consilium  illud  Dominicum,  "Fiat 
omnis  communicatio  vestra  Yea  et  Nay." 

In  his  nugis  caram  diem  consumo,  dum  invi- 
gilo  valetudini  carioris  nostrae  Emmae,  quae  apud 
nos  iamdudum  aegrotat.  Salvere  vos  iubet  mecum 
Maria  mea,  ipsa  integra  valetudine.         Elia 

Ab   agro   Enfeldiense  datum,  Aprilis  nescio 
quibus  Calendis.    Davus  sum,  non  Calendarius. 
P.  S.    Perdita  in  toto  est  Billa  Reformatura. 

NOTE 

[The  following  translation  is  by  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn : 
Good  Sir,  —  I  have  received  your  most  kind  letter,  and  it 

259 


has  entered  my  mind  as  I  began  to  reply,  that  the  Latin  tongue 
has  seldom  or  never  been  used  between  us  as  the  instrument 
of  converse  or  correspondence.  Your  letters,  filled  with  Plinian 
elegancies  (more  than  becomes  a  Quaker),  are  so  alien  to  Pliny's 
language,  that  you  seem  not  to  have  a  word  (that  is,  a  Roman 
word)  to  throw,  as  the  saying  is,  at  a  dog.  Perchance  the  dis- 
use of  Latinising  had  constrained  you  more  than  is  right  to  the 
use  of  the  vernacular.  I  have  determined  to  recall  you  to  the 
recovery  of  your  lost  Latinity  by  certain  well-known  adages 
common  in  all  mouths. 

The  cat 's  in  the  cupboard  and  she  can't  see. 

All  that  glitters  is  not  gold. 

Set  a  beggar  on  horseback  and  he  '11  ride  to  the  devil. 

Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief. 

Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary,  how  does  your  garden  grow  ? 
Now  let  us  sing  of  weightier  matters. 

Tom,  Tom,  of  Islington,  wed  a  wife  on  Sunday.  He  brought 
her  home  on  Monday.  Bought  a  stick  on  Tuesday.  Beat  her  well 
on  Wednesday.  She  was  sick  on  Thursday.  Dead  on  Friday. 
Tom  was  glad  on  Saturday  night  to  bury  his  wife  on  Sunday. 

Little  Jack  Horner  sat  in  a  corner,  eating  his  Christmas  pie. 
He  put  in  his  thumb  and  drew  out  a  plum  and  cried  "  Good 
Heavens,  what  a  good  boy  am  I !  " 

Diddle,  diddle,  dumkins  !  my  son  John  went  to  bed  with  his 
breeches  on ;  one  shoe  off"  and  the  other  shoe  on,  diddle, 
diddle,  etc.    (Da  Capo.) 

Here  am  I,  jumping  Joan.  When  no  one  's  by,  I  'm  all  alone. 

Solve  me  this  enigma,  you  shall  be  an  CEdipus. 

Why  is  a  horse  like  a  Quaker  ? 

Because  all  his  communication  is  by  Hay  and  Neigh,  after 
the  Lord's  counsel,  "  Let  all  your  communication  be  Yea  and 
Nay." 

In  these  trifles  I  waste  the  precious  day,  while  watching  over 
the  health  of  our  more  precious  Emma,  who  has  been  sick  in 
our  house  this  long  time.  My  Mary  sends  you  greeting  with 
me,  she  herself  in  sound  health. 

Given  from  the  Enfield  country  seat,  on  I  know  not  what 
Calends  of  April.    I  am  Davus,  not  an  Almanac. 

P.  S.    The  Reform  Bill  is  lost  altogether.] 

260 


DCLX.  — TO  HENRY  F.  CARY 

Datum  ab  agro  Enfeldiensi, 
Maii  die  sexta,  1831. 

Assidens  est  mihi  bona  soror,  Euripiden  evolv- 
ens,  donum  vestrum,  carissime  Cary,  pro  quo 
gratias  agimus,  lecturi  atque  iterum  lecturi 
idem.  Pergratus  est  liber  ambobus,  nempe  Sa- 
cerdotis  Commiserationis,  sacrum  opus  a  te  ipso 
humanissimae  religionis  sacerdote  dono  datum. 
Lachrymantes  gavisuri  sumus;  est  ubi  dolor  fiat 
voluptas ;  nee  semper  dulce  mihi  est  ridere ; 
aliquando  commutandum  est  he!  he!  he!  cum 
heu  !  heu  !  heu  ! 

A  Musis  Tragicis  me  non  penitus  abhorruisse 
testis  sit  Carmen  Calamitosum,  nescio  quo  autore 
lingua  prius  vernacula  scriptum,  et  nuperrime 
a  me  ipso  Latine  versum,  scilicet,  Tom  Tom  of 
Islington.    Tenuistine  ? 

Thomas  Thomas  de  Islington, 

Uxorem  duxit  die  quadam  Solis, 

Abduxit  domum  sequenti  die, 

Emit  baculum  subsequenti, 

Vapulat  ilia  postera, 

Aegrotat  succedenti,  mortua  fit  crastina. 

Et  miro  gaudio  afficitur  Thomas  luce  postera  quod 
subsequenti  (nempe,  Dominica)  uxor  sit  efFer- 
enda. 

En  Iliades  domesticas ! 
En  circulum  calamitatum  ! 
Plane  hebdomadalem  tragoediam. 

I  nunc  et  confer  Euripiden  vestrum  his  luctibus, 

261 


hac  morte  uxoria  ;  confer  Alcesten  !  Hecuben  ! 
quasnon  antiquas  heroinas  dolorosas. 

Suffundor  genas  lachrymis,  tantas  strages  re- 
volvens.  Quid  restat  nisi  quod  tecum  tuam  Caram 
salutamus  ambosque  valere  iubeamus,  nosmet  ipsi 
bene  valentes.  Elia 

note 

[The  following  translation  is  by  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn : 
Sitting  by  me  is  my  good  sister,  turning  over  Euripides,  your 
gift,  dear  Cary  [a  pun  here,  "  carissime  care  "],  for  which  we 
thank  you,  and  will  read  and  re-read  it.  Most  acceptable  to 
both  of  us  is  this  book  of  Pity's  Priest,  a  sacred  work  of  your 
bestowing,  yourself  a  priest  of  the  most  humane  religion.  We 
shall  take  our  pleasure  weeping;  there  are  times  when  pain 
turns  pleasure,  and  I  would  not  always  be  laughing :  sometimes 
there  should  be  a  change  —  heu!  heu!  for  he!  he! 

That  I  have  not  shrunk  from  the  Tragic  Muses,  witness  this 
Lamentable  Ballad,  first  written  in  the  vernacular  by  I  know 
not  what  author  and  lately  by  myself  put  into  Latin,  T.  T.  of 
Islington.  Have  you  heard  it  ?  (See  translation  of  preceding 
Utter.) 

And  Thomas  is  possessed  with  a  wondrous  joy  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  because  on  the  next  day,  that  is,  Sunday,  his 
wife  must  be  buried. 

Lo,  your  domestic  Iliads  ! 

Lo,  the  wheel  of  calamities  I 

The  true  tragedy  of  a  week. 

Go  to  now,  compare  your  Euripides  with  these  sorrows,  this 
death  of  a  wife  !  Compare  Alcestis  !  Hecuba  !  or  what  not 
other  sorrowing  heroines  of  antiquity. 

My  cheeks  are  tear-bedewed  as  I  revolve  such  slaughter. 
What  more  to  say,  but  to  salute  you  Cary  and  your  Cara,  and 
wish  you  health,  ourselves  enjoying  it.] 


262 


DCLXL  —  TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

July  14,  1 83 1. 

Collier's  book  would  be  right  acceptable.  And 
also  a  sixth  volume  just  publish' d  of  Nichols's 
Illustrations  of  the  Literary  History  of  18th  Cen- 
tury. I  agree  with  you,  and  do  yet  not  disagree 
with  W.  W.,  as  to  H[unt].  It  rejoyced  my  heart 
to  read  his  friendly  spirited  mention  of  your  pub- 
lications. It  might  be  a  drawback  to  my  pleas- 
ure, that  he  has  tried  to  decry  my  "Nicky,"  but 
on  deliberate  re-  and  reperusal  of  his  censure  I 
cannot  in  the  remotest  degree  understand  what 
he  means  to  say.  He  and  I  used  to  dispute  about 
hell  eternities,  I  taking  the  affirmative.  I  love  to 
puzzle  atheists,  and —  parsons.  I  fancy  it  runs  in 
his  head,  that  I  meant  to  rivet  the  idea  of  a  per- 
sonal devil.  Then  about  the  glorious  three  days ! 
there  was  never  a  year  or  day  in  my  past  life, 
since  I  was  pen-worthy,  that  I  should  not  have 
written  precisely  as  I  have. 

Logic  and  modesty  are  not  among  H.'s  virtues. 
Talfourd  flatters  me  upon  a  poem  which  "  no- 
body but  I  could  have  written,"  but  which  I  have 
neither  seen  nor  heard  of, — The  Banquet,  or  "Ban- 
queting Something,"  that  has  appeared  in  The  Tat- 
ler.  Know  you  of  it  ?  How  capitally  the  French- 
man has  analysed  Satan!  I  was  hinder'd,  or  I  was 
about  doing  the  same  thing  in  English,  for  him 
to  put  into  French,  as  I  prosified  Hood's  mid- 
summer fairies.    The  garden  of  cabbage  escap'd 

263 


him ;  he  turns  it  into  a  garden  of  pot-herbs.    So 
local  allusions  perish  in  translation. 

About  eight  days  before  you  told  me  of  R.'s 
interview  with  the  Premier,  I,  at  the  desire  of 
Badams,  wrote  a  letter  to  him  (Badams)  in  the 
most  moving  terms  setting  forth  the  age,  infirm- 
ities, &c,  of  Coleridge.  This  letter  was  convey'd 
by  B.  to  his  friend  Mr.  Ellice  of  the  Treasury, 
brother-in-law  to  Lord  Grey,  who  immediately 
pass'd  it  on  to  Lord  Grey,  who  assured  him  of 
immediate  relief  by  a  grant  on  the  King's  bounty, 
which  news  E.  communicated  to  B.  with  a  de- 
sire to  confer  with  me  on  the  subject,  on  which 
I  went  up  to  the  Treasury  (yesterday  fortnight) 
and  was  received  by  the  great  man  with  the 
utmost  cordiality  (shook  hands  with  me  coming 
and  going)  ;  a  fine  hearty  gentleman,  and,  as 
seeming  willing  to  relieve  any  anxiety  from  me, 
promised  me  an  answer  thro'  Badams  in  two  or 
three  days  at  furthest.  Meantime  Gilman's  ex- 
traordinary insolent  letter  comes  out  in  the  Times! 
As  to  my  acquiescing  in  this  strange  step,  I  told 
Mr.  Ellice  (who  expressly  said  that  the  thing  was 
renewable  three-yearly)  that  I  consider'd  such 
a  grant  as  almost  equivalent  to  the  lost  pension,  as 
from  C.'s  appearance  and  the  representations  of 
the  Gilmans,  I  scarce  could  think  C.'s  life  worth 
two  years'  purchase.  I  did  not  know  that  the 
chancellor  had  been  previously  applied  to.  Well, 
after  seeing  Ellice  I  wrote  in  the  most  urgent 
manner  to  the  Gilmans,  insisting  on  an  immedi- 

264 


ate  letter  of  acknowledgment  from  Coleridge,  or 
them  in  his  name  to  Badams,  who  not  knowing 
C.  had  come  forward  so  disinterestedly  amidst  his 
complicated  illnesses  and  embarrassments,  to  use 
up  an  interest,  which  he  may  so  well  need,  in 
favour  of  a  stranger;  and  from  that  day  not  a  letter 
has  B.  or  even  myself,  received  from  Highgate, 
unless  that  published  one  in  the  Times  is  meant  as 
a  general  answer  to  all  the  friends  who  have  stirr'd 
to  do  C.  service  !  Poor  C.  is  not  to  blame,  for  he 
is  in  leading-strings.  I  particularly  wish  you 
would  read  this  part  of  my  note  to  Mr.  Rogers. 
Now  for  home  matters.  Our  next  two  Sundays 
will  be  choked  up  with  all  the  Sugdens.  The 
third  will  be  free,  when  we  hope  you  will  show 
your  sister  the  way  to  Enfield  and  leave  her  with 
us  for  a  few  days.  In  the  meanwhile,  could  you 
not  run  down  some  week  day  (afternoon,  say)  and 
sleep  at  the  Horse  Shoe  ?  I  want  to  have  my  sec- 
ond volume  Elias  bound  specimen  fashion,  and  to 
consult  you  about  'em.  Kenney  has  just  assured 
me  that  he  has  just  touch'd  j£ioo  from  the 
theatre  ;  you  are  a  damn'd  fool  if  you  don't  exact 
your  tythe  of  him,  and  with  that  assurance  I  rest, 
Your  brother  fool,  C.  L. 

DCLXII.  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

Early  August,  1831. 

Dear  M.,  —  The  R.A.  here  memorised  was 
George  Dawe,  whom  I  knew  well  and  heard 

265 


many  anecdotes  of,  from  Daniels  and  Westall, 
at  H.  Rogers's ;  to  each  of  them  it  will  be  well 
to  send  a  magazine  in  my  name.  It  will  fly  like 
wild  fire  among  the  Royal  Academicians  and 
artists.  Could  you  get  hold  of  Proctor  —  his 
chambers  are  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  at  Montagu's 
—  or  of  Janus  Weathercock  ?  —  both  of  their 
prose  is  capital.  Don't  encourage  poetry.  The 
Peter  s  Net  does  not  intend  funny  things  only. 
All  is  fish.  And  leave  out  the  sickening  E/ia 
at  the  end.  Then  it  may  comprise  letters  and 
characters  addrest  to  Peter  —  but  a  signature 
forces  it  to  be  all  characteristic  of  the  one  man 
Elia,  or  the  one  man  Peter,  which  cramped  me 
formerly. 

I  have  agreed  not  for  my  sister  to  know  the 
subjects  I  chuse  till  the  magazine  comes  out ;  so 
beware  of  speaking  of  'em,  or  writing  about 
'em,  save  generally.  Be  particular  about  this 
warning.  Can't  you  drop  in  some  afternoon, 
and  take  a  bed  ? 

The  Athenaeum  has  been  hoaxed  with  some 
exquisite  poetry  that  was  two  or  three  months 
ago  in  Hone's  Book.  I  like  your  first  Number 
capitally.    But  is  it  not  small  ? 

Come  and  see  us,  week-day  if  possible. 

C.  L. 

Pray  forward  the  enclosed,  or  put  it  in  the 
post. 

266 


DCLXIII.  — TO  JOHN  FORSTER 

August  4,  1 83 1. 

My  dear  Boy,  —  Scamper  off  with  this  to 
Dilke,  and  get  it  in  for  to-morrow;  then  we 
shall  have  two  things  in  in  the  first  week. 

Your  Laureat 

DCLXIV.  — TO   EDWARD  MOXON 

1831. 

Dear  M.,  —  I  have  ingeniously  contrived  to 
review  myself.  Tell  me  if  this  will  do.  Mind, 
for  such  things  as  these  —  half  quotations  —  I  do 
not  charge  Elia  price.  Let  me  hear  of,  if  not 
see  you.  Peter 

DCLXV.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

August  5,  1 83 1. 

Send,  or  bring  me,  Hone's  Number  for  Au- 
gust. 

Hunt  is  a  fool,  and  his  critics.  The  anecdotes 
of  E.  and  of  G.  D.  are  substantially  true.  What 
does  Elia  (or  Peter)  care  for  dates  ? 

That  is  the  poem  I  mean.  I  do  not  know 
who  wrote  it,  but  it  is  in  Hone's  book  as  far 
back  as  April. 

'  T  is  a  poem  I  envy  —  that  and  Montgomery's 
Last  Man  (nothing  else  of  his).  I  envy  the  writ- 
ers, because  I  feel  I  could  have  done  something 

267 


like  it.    S is  a  coxcomb.    W is  a 

and  a  great  poet.  L. 

DCLXVI.  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

This  instant  received,  this  instant  I  answer 
your's  —  Dr.  Cresswell  has  one  copy,  which  I 
cannot  just  now  re-demand,  because  at  his  desire 
I  have  sent  on  Satan  to  him,  which  when  he 
ask'd  for,  I  frankly  told  him,  was  imputed  a 
lampoon  on  him  !  I  have  sent  it  him,  and  can- 
not, till  we  come  to  explanation,  go  to  him  or 
send. 

But  on  the  faith  of  a  gentleman,  you  shall  have 
it  back  some  Any  for  Another.  The  three  I  send. 
I  think  two  of  the  blunders  perfectly  immaterial. 
But  your  feelings,  and  I  fear  pocket,  is  every- 
thing. I  have  just  time  to  pack  this  off  by  the 
two  o'clock  stage.    Yours  till  we  meet. 

At  all  events  I  behave  more  gentlemanlike 
than  Emma  did,  in  returning  the  copies. 

Yours  till  we  meet  —  do  come.  Bring  the 
sonnets. 

Why  not  publish  'em  —  or  let  another  book- 
seller ? 

DCLXVII.  — TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

September  5,  1831. 

Dear  M.,  — Your  letter's  contents  pleased  me. 
I   am  only  afraid  of  taxing  you,  yet  I  want  a 

268 


stimulus,  or  I  think  I  should  drag  sadly.  I  shall 
keep  the  monies  in  trust  till  I  see  you  fairly  over 
the  next  ist  January.  Then  I  shall  look  upon 
'em  as  earned.  Colburn  shall  be  written  to.  No 
part  of  yours  gave  me  more  pleasure  (no,  not  the 
j£io,  tho'  you  may  grin)  than  that  you  will  re- 
visit old  Enfield,  which  I  hope  will  be  always 
a  pleasant  idea  to  you. 

Yours  very  faithfully,  C.  L. 

DCLXVIII.  — TO   WILLIAM  HAZLITT,  Jr. 

September  13,  1831. 

Dear  William,  —  We  have  a  sick  house,  Mrs. 
Westwood's  daughter  in  a  fever,  and  grand- 
daughter in  the  measles,  and  it  is  better  to  see  no 
company  just  now  ;  but  in  a  week  or  two  we  shall 
be  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  come  at  a  hazard  then, 
on  a  week-day  if  you  can,  because  Sundays  are 
stuff' d  up  with  friends  on  both  parts  of  this  great 
ill-mix' d  family.  Your  second  letter,  dated  third 
September,  came  not  till  Sunday  and  we  staid 
at  home  in  evening,  in  expectation  of  seeing 
you. 

I  have  turned  and  twisted  what  you  ask'd  me 
to  do  in  my  head,  and  am  obliged  to  say  I  cannot 
undertake  it — but  as  a  composition  for  declining 
it,  will  you  accept  some  verses  which  I  meditate 
to  be  addrest  to  you  on  your  father,  and  prefix- 
able  to  your  Life  ?  Write  me  word  that  I  may 
have  'em  ready  against  I  see  you  some  ten  days 

269 


hence,  when  I  calculate  the  house  will  be  unin- 
fected.   Send  your  mother's  address. 

If  you  are  likely  to  be  again  at  Cheshunt  before 
that  time,  on  second  thoughts,  drop  in  here,  and 
consult,  Yours,  C.  L. 

Not  a  line  is  yet  written  —  so  say,  if  I  shall 
do  'em. 

DCLXIX.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

October  24,  1831. 

To  address  an  abdicated  monarch  is  a  nice  point 
of  breeding.  To  give  him  his  lost  titles  is  to 
mock  him ;  to  withhold  'em  is  to  wound  him. 
But  his  minister  who  falls  with  him  may  be 
gracefully  sympathetic.  I  do  honestly  feel  for 
your  diminution  of  honours,  and  regret  even  the 
pleasing  cares  which  are  part  and  parcel  of  great- 
ness. Your  magnanimous  submission,  and  the 
cheerful  tone  of  your  renunciation,  in  a  letter 
which,  without  flattery,  would  have  made  an 
"  Article"  and  which,  rarely  as  I  keep  letters, 
shall  be  preserved,  comfort  me  a  little.  Will  it 
please,  or  plague  you,  to  say  that  when  your  parcel 
came  I  damned  it,  for  my  pen  was  warming  in 
my  hand  at  a  ludicrous  description  of  a  landscape 
of  an  R.  A.,  which  I  calculated  upon  sending  you 
to-morrow,  the  last  day  you  gave  me.  Now  any 
one  calling  in,  or  a  letter  coming,  puts  an  end  to 
my  writing  for  the  day.    Little  did  I  think  that 

270 


the  mandate  had  gone  out,  so  destructive  to  my 
occupation,  so  relieving  to  the  apprehensions 
of  the  whole  body  of  R.  A.'s.  So  you  see  I  had 
not  quitted  the  ship  while  a  plank  was  remain- 
ing. 

To  drop  metaphors,  I  am  sure  you  have  done 
wisely.  The  very  spirit  of  your  epistle  speaks  that 
you  have  a  weight  off  your  mind.  I  have  one  on 
mine.  The  cash  in  hand,  which,  as  *****  *  less 
truly  says,  burns  in  my  pocket.  I  feel  queer  at 
returning  it  (who  does  not  ?).  You  feel  awkward 
at  re-taking  it  (who  ought  not?).  Is  there  no 
middle  way  of  adjusting  this  fine  embarrassment? 
I  think  I  have  hit  upon  a  medium  to  skin  the 
sore  place  over,  if  not  quite  to  heal  it.  You  hinted 
that  there  might  be  something  under  ^"10  by 
and  by  accruing  to  me,  Devil's  Money.  You  are 
sanguine  —  say  £j.ios.  —  that  I  entirely  re- 
nounce and  abjure  all  future  interest  in,  I  insist 
upon  it,  and  "by  Him  I  will  not  name"  I  won't 
touch  a  penny  of  it.  That  will  split  your  loss 
one  half,  and  leave  me  conscientious  possessor 
of  what  I  hold.  Less  than  your  assent  to  this, 
no  proposal  will  I  accept  of. 

The  Rev.  Mr. ,  whose  name  you  have 

left  illegible  (is  it  Seagull?)  never  sent  me  any 
book  on  Christ's  Hospital  by  which  I  could 
dream  that  I  was  indebted  to  him  for  a  dedication. 
Did  G.  D.  send  his  penny  tract  to  me  to  convert 
me  to  Unitarianism  ?  Dear  blundering  soul !  why 
I  am  as  old  a  one-Goddite  as  himself.    Or  did  he 

271 


think  his  cheap  publication  would  bring  over  the 
Methodists  over  the  way  here  ?  However,  I  '11 
give  it  to  the  pew-opener  (in  whom  I  have  a 
little  interest)  to  hand  over  to  the  clerk,  whose 
wife  she  sometimes  drinks  tea  with,  for  him  to 
lay  before  the  deacon,  who  exchanges  the  civility 
of  the  hat  with  him,  for  him  to  transmit  to  the 
minister,  who  shakes  hand   with  him  out  of 

chapel,  and  he,  in  all  odds,  will 

with  it. 

I  wish  very  much  to  see  you.  I  leave  it  to  you 
to  come  how  you  will.  We  shall  be  very  glad 
(we  need  not  repeat)  to  see  your  sister,  or  sisters, 
with  you ;  but  for  you  individually  I  will  just 
hint  that  a  dropping  in  to  tea  unlook'd  for  about 
five,  stopping  bread-n-cheese  and  gin-and-water, 
is  worth  a  thousand  Sundays.  I  am  naturally 
miserable  on  a  Sunday,  but  a  week-day  evening 
and  supper  is  like  old  times.  Set  out  now,  and 
give  no  time  to  deliberation. 

P.  S.  The  second  volume  of  Elia  is  delight- 
fully bound,  I  mean)  and  quite  cheap.  Why, 
man,  't  is  a  unique. 

If  I  write  much  more  I  shall  expand  into  an 
article,  which  I  cannot  afford  to  let  you  have  so 
cheap. 

By  the  by,  to  shew  the  perverseness  of  human 
will  —  while  I  thought  I  must  furnish  one  of 
those  accursed  things  monthly,  it  seemed  a  labour 
above  Hercules's  "  Twelve "  in  a  year,  which 
were  evidently  monthly  contributions.    Now  I 

272 


am  emancipated,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  thousand 
essays  swelling  within  me.    False  feelings  both. 

I  have  lost  Mr.  Aitken's  town  address — do  you 
know  it  ?    Is  he  there  ? 

Your  ex-Lampoonist,  or  Lamb-punnist  — 
from  Enfield,  Oct.  24,  or  "  last  day  but  one  for 
receiving  articles  that  can  be  inserted." 

DCLXX.  —  TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

December  15,  1831. 

Dear  M.,  —  S.  \  probably  Southey]  I  know, 
has  an  aversion,  amounting  almost  to  horror,  of 
H.  [probably  Hunt].  He  -would not  lend  his  name. 
The  other  I  might  wring  a  guinea  from,  but  he 
is  very  properly  shy  of  his  guineas.  It  would  be 
improper  in  me  to  apply  to  him,  and  impertin- 
ent to  the  other.  I  hope  this  will  satisfy  you, 
but  don't  give  my  reason  to  H.'s  friend,  simply 
say  I  decline  it. 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  thinking 
of  Cary.  Put  me  down  seven  shillings  (was  n't 
it  ?)  in  your  books,  and  I  set  you  down  for  more 
in  my  good  ones.  One  copy  will  go  down  to 
immortality  now,  the  more  lasting  as  the  less  its 
leaves  are  disturbed.  This  letter  willcost  you 
3*/. ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  be  silent  on  the  above. 

Nothing  with  my  name  will  sell ;  a  blast  is 
upon  it.  Do  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  unless 
ever  you  become  rich  enough  to  speculate. 

Being  praised,  and  being  bought,  are  different 
273 


things  to  a  book.  Fancy  books  sell  from  fashion, 
not  from  the  number  of  their  real  likers.  Do 
not  come  at  so  long  intervals.  Here  we  are  sure 
to  be. 

DCLXXI.  — TO  J.  HUME'S  DAUGHTERS 

1832. 

Many  thanks  for  the  wrap-rascal,  but  how 
delicate  the  insinuating  in,  into  the  pocket,  of 
that  3  y2  d.,  in  paper  too  !  Who  was  it  ?  Amelia, 
Caroline,  Julia,  Augusta,  or  "  Scots  who  have  "  ? 

As  a  set-off  to  the  very  handsome  present, 
which  I  shall  lay  out  in  a  pot  of  ale  certainly  to 
her  health,  I  have  paid  sixpence  for  the  mend 
of  two  button-holes  of  the  coat  now  return'd. 
She  shall  not  have  to  say,  "  I  don't  care  a  button 
for  her." 

Adieu,  tres  aimables  ! 

Buttons bd. 

Gift 1% 

Due  from .        .        .     zl/2 

which  pray  accept  *  *  *  from  your  foolish  coat- 
forgetting,  C.  L. 

DCLXXII.  — TO    CHARLES   W.    DILKE 

March  5,  1832. 

Dear  Sir,  —  My  friend  Aders,  a  German  mer- 
chant, German  born,  has  open'd  to  the  public 

274 


at  the  Suffolk  St.  gallery  his  glorious  collection 
of  old  Dutch  and  German  pictures.  Pray  see 
them.  You  have  only  to  name  my  name,  and 
have  a  ticket  —  if  you  have  not  received  one 
already.  You  will  possibly  notice  'em,  and 
might  lug  in  the  inclosed,1  which  I  wrote  for 
Hone's  Tear  Book,  and  has  appear'd  only  there, 
when  the  pictures  were  at  home  in  Euston 
Square.  The  fault  of  this  matchless  set  of  pic- 
tures is,  the  admitting  a  few  Italian  pictures  with 

1  TO  C.  ADERS,  Esc.. 

On  bis  Collection  of  Paintings  by  the  old  German  Masters 

Friendliest  of  men,  Aders,  I  never  come 
Within  the  precincts  of  this  sacred  room, 
But  I  am  struck  with  a  religious  fear, 
Which  says,  "Let  no  profane  eye  enter  here." 
With  imagery  from  heav'n  the  walls  are  clothed, 
Making  the  things  of  time  seem  vile  and  loathed. 
Spare  saints,  whose  bodies  seem  sustain' d  by  love 
With  martyrs  old  in  meek  procession  move. 
Here  kneels  a  weeping  Magdalen,  less  bright 
To  human  sense  for  her  blurr'd  cheeks  ;  in  sight 
Of  eyes,  new-touch'  d  by  heaven,  more  winning  fair 
Than  when  her  beauty  was  her  only  care. 
A  hermit  here  strange  mysteries  doth  unlock 
In  desart  sole,  his  knees  worn  by  the  rock. 
There  angel  harps  are  sounding,  while  below 
Palm-bearing  virgins  in  white  order  go. 
Madonnas,  varied  with  so  chaste  design, 
While  all  are  different,  each  seems  genuine, 
And  hers  the  only  Jesus  :  hard  outline, 
And  rigid  form,  by  Durer's  hand  subdued 
To  matchless  grace,  and  sacro-sanctitude  ; 
Dvirer,  who  makes  thy  slighted  Germany 
Vie  with  the  praise  of  paint-proud  Italy. 

Whoever  enter' st  here,  no  more  presume 
To  name  a  parlour,  or  a  drawing-room  ; 
But,  bending  lowly  to  each  holy  story, 
Make  this  thy  chapel  and  thine  oratory. 

27S 


'em,  which  I  would  turn  out  to  make  the  col- 
lection unique  and  pure.  Those  old  Albert 
Diirers  have  not  had  their  fame.  I  have  tried  to 
illustrate  'em.  If  you  print  my  verses,  a  copy, 
please,  for  me. 

DCLXX1II.  — TO   S.   T   COLERIDGE 

April  14,  1832. 

My  dear  Coleridge,  —  Not  an  unkind  thought 
has  passed  in  my  brain  about  you.  But  I  have 
been  wofully  neglectful  of  you,  so  that  I  do  not 
deserve  to  announce  to  you  that,  if  I  do  not  hear 
from  you  before  then,  I  will  set  out  on  Wednes- 
day morning  to  take  you  by  the  hand.  I  would 
do  it  this  moment,  but  an  unexpected  visit  might 
flurry  you.  I  shall  take  silence  for  acquiescence, 
and  come.  I  am  glad  you  could  write  so  long  a 
letter.  Old  loves  to,  and  hope  of  kind  looks  from, 
the  Gilmans,  when  I  come. 

Yours,  semper  idem,  C.  L. 

If  you  ever  thought  an  offence,  much  more 
wrote  it,  against  me,  it  must  have  been  in  the 
times  of  Noah;  and  the  great  waters  swept  it 
away.  Mary's  most  kind  love,  and  maybe  a 
wrong  prophet  of  your  bodings  !  —  here  she  is 
crying  for  mere  love  over  your  letter.  I  wring 
out  less,  but  not  sincerer,  showers. 

My  direction  is  simply,  Enfield. 

276 


DCLXXIV.  — TO   JOHN    FORSTER 

Late  April,  1832. 

One  day  in  my  life 

Do  come.  C.  L. 

I  have  placed  poor  Mary  at  Edmonton,  —  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  see  the  Hunchback  and 
Straitback  the  first  evening  they  can  come.  I  am 
very  poorly  indeed.  I  have  been  cruelly  thrown 
out.  Come  and  don't  let  me  drink  too  much. 
I  drank  more  yesterday  than  I  ever  did  any  one 
day  in  my  life.  C.  L. 

Do  come.  Cannot  your  sister  come  and  take 
a  half  bed  —  or  a  whole  one?  Which,  alas,  we 
have  to  spare. 

DCLXXV.— TO   EDWARD   MOXON  (?) 

June  1,  1832. 

I  am  a  little  more  than  half  alive.  I  was  more 
than  half  dead.  The  ladies  are  very  agreeable. 
I  flatter  myself  I  am  less  than  disagreeable.  Con- 
vey this  to  Mr.  Forster,  whom  with  you  I  shall 
just  be  able  to  see  some  ten  days  hence,  and  be- 
lieve me,  ever  yours,  C.  L. 

I  take  Forster's  name  to  be  John ;  but  you 
know  whom  I  mean,  the  Pym-praiser,  not  pimp- 
raiser. 

277 


DCLXXVI.  — TO  JOHN  FORSTER 

[No  date.] 
{With  Acrostics  enclosed') 

TO  M.   L.    [MARY  LOCKE] 

M  ust  I  write  with  pen  unwilling, 
A  nd  describe  those  graces  killing, 
R  ightly,  which  I  never  saw  ? 
Yes  —  it  is  the  album's  law. 

L  et  me  then  invention  strain, 

O  n  your  excellence  grace  to  feign, 

C  old  is  fiction.    I  believe  it 

K  indly  as  I  did  receive  it ; 

E  ven  as  I,  F.'s  tongue,  did  weave  it. 

TO  S.   L.  [SARAH  LOCKE] 

S  hall  I  praise  a  face  unseen, 
A  nd  extol  a  fancied  mien, 
R  ave  on  visionary  charm, 
A  nd  from  shadows  take  alarm ! 
H  atred  hates  without  a  cause, 

L  ove  may  love  without  applause, 
O  r,  without  a  reason  given, 
C  harmed  be  with  unknown  heaven. 
K  eep  the  secret,  though,  unmocked, 
E  ver  in  your  bosom  Locked. 

Am  I  right?  Sarah  I  distinctly  remember; 
but  Mary  I  am  not  sure  ought  not  to  be  Anne. 
It  is  soon  rectified  in  that  case.  Tou  I  take  to  be 
John. 

C.  L. 
278 


DCLXXVII.  — TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

July  12,  1832. 

Dear  M.,  —  My  hand  shakes  so,  I  can  hardly 
say  don't  come  yet.  I  have  been  worse  to-day 
than  you  saw  me.  I  am  going  to  try  water  gruel 
and  quiet  if  I  can  get  it.  But  a  visitor  has  just 
been  down,  and  another  a  day  or  two  before, 
and  I  feel  half  frantic.  I  will  write  when  better. 
Make  excuses  to  Forster  for  the  present. 

C.  Lamb 

DCLXXVIII.  — TO  WALTER  WILSON 

August,  1832. 

My  dear  Wilson,  —  I  cannot  let  my  old  friend 
Mrs.  Hazlitt  (sister-in-law  to  poor  Wm.  Hazlitt) 
leave  Enfield,  without  endeavouring  to  introduce 
her  to  you,  and  to  Mrs.  Wilson.  Her  daughter 
has  a  school  in  your  neighbourhood,  and  for  her 
talents  and  for  her  merits  I  can  answer.  If  it  lies 
in  your  power  to  be  useful  to  them  in  any  way, 
the  obligation  to  your  old  office-fellow  will  be 
great.  I  have  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Wilson's  album, 
and  if  you,  or  she,  will  be  the  means  of  procur- 
ing but  one  pupil  for  Miss  Hazlitt,  I  will  rub 
up  my  poor  poetic  faculty  to  the  best.  But  you 
and  she  will  one  day,  I  hope,  bring  the  album 
with  you  to  Enfield.  Poor  Mary  is  ill,  or  would 
send  her  love.  Yours  very  truly, 

C.  Lamb 
279 


News.  —  Collet  is  dead,  Du  Puy  is  dead.  I  am 
not.  —  Hone  is  turned  believer  in  Irving  and  his 
unknown  tongues  ! 

In  the  name  of  dear  Defoe,  which  alone  might 
be  a  bond  of  union  between  us,  adieu  ! 

DCLXXIX.  — TO  HENRY  C.  ROBINSON 

Early  October,  1832. 

For  Landor's  kindness  I  have  just  esteem.  I 
shall  tip  him  a  letter,  when  you  tell  me  how  to 
address  him. 

Give  Emma's  kindest  regrets  that  I  could  not 
entice  her  good  friend,  your  nephew,  here. 

Her  warmest  love  to  the  Bury  Robinsons  — 
our  all  three  to  H.  Crab. 

C.  L. 

Accompanying  copy  of  Landor's  verses  to 
Emma  Isola,  and  others,  contributed  to  Miss 
Wordsworth's  album,  and  poem  written  at  Wast- 
water. 

DCLXXX.  — TO   WALTER   S.   LANDOR 

October,  1832. 

Dear  Sir, —  Pray  accept  a  little  volume.  'T  is 
a  legacy  from  Elia,  you  '11  see.  Silver  and  gold 
had  he  none,  but  such  as  he  had,  left  he  you.  I 
do  not  know  how  to  thank  you  for  attending  to 
my  request  about  the  album.    I  thought  you 

280 


would  never  remember  it.  Are  not  you  proud 
and  thankful,  Emma? 

Yes,  very,  both —  Emma  Isola 

Many  things  I  had  to  say  to  you,  which  there 
was  not  time  for.  One  why  should  I  forget  ?  't  is 
for  Rose  Aylmer,  which  has  a  charm  I  cannot 
explain.    I  lived  upon  it  for  weeks. 

Next  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  knew  all  your  Welch 
annoyancers,  the  measureless  Beethams.  I  knew 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  them.  Seventeen  brothers 
and  sixteen  sisters,  as  they  appear  to  me  in  mem- 
ory. There  was  one  of  them  that  used  to  fix  his 
long  legs  on  my  fender,  and  tell  a  story  of  a 
shark,  every  night,  endless,  immortal.  How  have 
I  grudged  the  salt  sea  ravener  not  having  had  his 
gorge  of  him ! 

The  shortest  of  the  daughters  measured  five 
foot  eleven  without  her  shoes.  Well,  some  day 
we  may  confer  about  them.  But  they  were  tall. 
Surely  I  have  discover'd  the  longitude. 

Sir,  if  you  can  spare  a  moment,  I  should  be 
happy  to  hear  from  you;  that  rogue  Robinson 
detained  your  verses,  till  I  call'd  for  them.  Don't 
entrust  a  bit  of  prose  to  the  rogue,  but  believe 
me,  Your  obliged,  C.  L. 

My  sister  sends  her  kind  regards. 

NOTE 

[Crabb  Robinson  took  Landor  to  see  Lamb  on  September 
28,  1832.  The  following  passage  in  Forster's  Life  of  Landor 
describes  the  visit  and  explains  this  letter ; 

28l 


The  hour  he  passed  with  Lamb  was  one  of  unalloyed  enjoyment.  A 
letter  from  Crabb  Robinson  before  he  came  over  had  filled  him  with 
affection  for  that  most  loveable  of  men,  who  had  not  an  infirmity  to  which 
his  sweetness  of  nature  did  not  give  something  of  kinship  to  a  virtue.  "  I 
have  just  seen  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,"  Crabb  Robinson  had  written 
(20th  October,  183 1),  "living  in  absolute  solitude  at  Enfield.  I  find  your 
poems  lying  open  before  Lamb.  Both  tipsy  and  sober  he  is  ever  muttering 
Rose  Aylmer.  But  it  is  not  those  lines  only  that  have  a  curious  fascination 
for  him.  He  is  always  turning  to  Gebir  for  things  that  haunt  him  in  the 
same  way."  Their  first  and  last  hour  was  now  passed  together,  and  before 
they  parted  they  were  old  friends.  I  visited  Lamb  myself  (with  Barry 
Cornwall)  the  following  month,  and  remember  the  boyish  delight  with 
which  he  read  to  us  the  verses  which  Landor  had  written  in  the  album  of 
Emma  Isola.  He  had  just  received  them  through  Robinson,  and  had  lost 
little  time  in  making  rich  return  by  sending  Landor  his  Last  Essays  of 
Elia. 

Landor  wrote  to  Lady  Blessington  : 

I  do  not  think  that  you  ever  knew  Charles  Lamb,  who  is  lately  dead. 
Robinson  took  me  to  see  him. 

"Once,  and  once  only,  have  I  seen  thy  face, 
Elia!  once  only  has  thy  tripping  tongue 
Run  o'er  my  heart,  yet  never  has  been  left 
Impression  on  it  stronger  or  more  sweet. 
Cordial  old  man!   what  youth  was  in  thy  years, 
What  wisdom  in  thy  levity,  what  soul 
In  every  utterance  of  thy  purest  breast! 
Of  all  that  ever  wore  man's  form,  'tis  thee 
I  first  would  spring  to  at  the  gate  of  Heaven." 

I  say  tripping  tongue,  for  Charles  Lamb  stammered  and  spoke  hur- 
riedly. He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  put  on  a  fine  new  coat  to  come 
down  and  see  me  in,  as  poor  Coleridge  did,  but  met  me  as  if  I  had  been 
a  friend  of  twenty  years'  standing  ;  indeed,  he  told  me  I  had  been  so,  and 
shewed  me  some  things  I  had  written  much  longer  ago,  and  had  utterly 
forgotten.  The  world  will  never  see  again  two  such  delightful  volumes  as 
The  Essays  of  Elia ;  no  man  living  is  capable  of  writing  the  worst  twenty 
pages  of  them.  The  Continent  has  Zadig  and  Gil  Bias,  we  have  Elia  and 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverly.] 


DCLXXXI.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

Late  1832. 

A  poor  mad  usher  (and  schoolfellow  of  mine) 
282 


has  been  pestering  me  through  you  with  poetry  and 
petitions.  I  have  desired  him  to  call  upon  you  for 
a  half  sovereign,  which  place  to  my  account. 

I  have  buried  Mrs.  Reynolds  at  last,  who  has 
virtually  at  least  bequeath'd  me  a  legacy  of  ^32 
per  annum,  to  which  add  that  my  other  pen- 
sioner is  safe  housed  in  the  workhouse,  which 
gets  me  ^10. 

Richer  by  both  legacies  ^42  per  annum.  For 
a  loss  of  a  loss  is  as  good  as  a  gain  of  a  gain.  But 
let  this  be  between  ourselves,  specially  keep  it  from 

A or  I  shall  speedily  have  candidates  for  the 

pensions.  Mary  is  laid  up  with  a  cold.  Will  you 
convey  the  inclosed  by  hand? 

When  you  come,  if  you  ever  do,  bring  me  one 
Devil's  Visit,  I  mean  Southey's;  also  the  Hogarth 
which  is  complete,  Noble's  I  think.  Six  more 
letters  to  do.    Bring  my  bill  also.  C.  L. 

DCLXXXII.  —  TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

Winter,  1832. 

Thank  you  for  the  books.  I  am  ashamed  to 
take  tythe  thus  of  your  press.  I  am  worse  to  a 
publisher  than  the  two  Universities  and  the  Brit- 
ish Museum.  A[llan]  C  [unningham]  I  will  forth- 
with read.  B[arry]  C[ornwall]  (I  can't  get  out 
of  the  A,  B,  C)  I  have  more  than  read.  Taken 
altogether,  't  is  too  lovey  ;  but  what  delicacies  ! 
I  like  most  King  Death ;  glorious  'bove  all,  The 
Lady  with  the  Hundred  Rings;  The  Owl ;  Epistle 

283 


to  What  *s  his  Name  (here  may  be  I  'm  partial) ; 
Sit  down,  Sad  Soul;  The  Pauper  s  Jubilee  (but  that '  s 
old,  and  yet  'tis  never  old);  The  Falcon;  Felon's 
Wife;  damn  "Madame  Pasty"  (but  that  is  bor- 
rowed) : 

Apple-pie  is  very  good, 
And  so  is  apple-pasty ; 

But 

O  Lard  !   't  is  very  nasty  : 

but  chiefly  the  dramatic  fragments, — scarce  three 
of  which  should  have  escaped  my  Specimens,  had 
an  antique  name  been  prefixed.  They  exceed  his 
first.  So  much  for  the  nonsense  of  poetry  ;  now 
to  the  serious  business  of  life. 

Up  a  court  (Blandford  Court)  in  Pall  Mall 
(exactly  at  the  back,  of  Marlbro'  House),  with 
iron  gate  in  front,  and  containing  two  houses,  at 
No.  2  did  lately  live  Leishman  my  taylor.  He  is 
moved  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood,  devil 
knows  where.  Pray  find  him  out,  and  give  him 
the  opposite.  I  am  so  much  better,  tho'  my  hand 
shakes  in  writing  it,  that,  after  next  Sunday,  I  can 
well  see  F[orster]  and  you.  Can  you  throw  B.  C. 
in  ?    Why  tarry  the  wheels  of  my  Hogarth  ? 

Charles  Lamb 

note 

["  I  am  worse  to  a  publisher."  There  is  a  rule  by  which  a 
publisher  must  present  copies  of  every  book  to  the  Stationers' 
Hall,  to  be  distributed  to  the  British  Museum,  the  Bodleian, 
and  Cambridge  University  Library. —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

284 


DCLXXXIII.  —  TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

December,  1832. 

This  is  my  notion :  wait  till  you  are  able  to 
throw  away  a  round  sum  (say  ^1500)  upon  a 
speculation,  and  then — don't  do  it.  For  all  your 
loving  encouragements,  till  this  final  damp  came 
in  the  shape  of  your  letter,  thanks  —  for  books 
also ;  greet  the  Fosters  and  Proctors,  and  come 
singly  or  conjunctively  as  soon  as  you  can.  John- 
son and  Fare's  sheets  have  been  wash'd — unless 
you  prefer  Danby's  last  bed  —  at  the  Horseshoe. 

NOTE 

[I  assume  Lamb's  advice  to  refer  to  Moxon's  intention  of 
founding  a  paper  called  The  Reflector,  which  Forster  was  to 
edit.  All  trace  of  this  periodical  has  vanished,  but  it  existed 
in  December,  1832,  for  three  numbers,  and  was  then  with- 
drawn.   Lamb  contributed  to  it. 

Johnson  and  Fare  had  just  murdered  —  on  December  19  — 
a  Mr.  Danby,  at  Enfield.  They  had  met  him  in  the  Crown 
and  Horseshoe. 

W.  C.  Hazlitt  prints  a  note  to  Moxon  in  his  Bohn  edition 
in  which  Lamb  advises  the  withdrawal  of  The  Reflector  at 
once.    This  would  be  December,  1832. — E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DCLXXXIV.  — TO  JOHN    FORSTER 

To  Messrs.  Bradbury  &  Evans,  14  Bouverie 
Street,  Fleet  Street.  For  the  Editor  of  the  Re- 
flector, from  C.  Lamb. 

December  23,  1832. 

I  am  very  sorry  the  poor  Reflector  is  abortive. 

285 


'T  was  a  child  of  good  promise  for  its  weeks.  But 
if  the  chances  are  so  much  against  it,  withdraw 
immediately.  It  is  idle  up-hill  waste  of  money 
to  spend  another  stamp  on  it. 


NOTE 


[Arc 
"  Obiit 


Ground  the  seal  of  this  note  are  the  words  in  Lamb's  hand  : 
Diit  Edwardus  Reflector  Armiger,  31   Dec,  1832.    Natus 
tres  hcbdomidas.    Pax  animae  ejus."  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 


DCLXXXV.  — TO  LOUISA  BADAMS 

December  31,  1832. 

Dear  Mrs.  B.,  —  Mary  has  not  enterprise 
enough  to  venture  on  a  journey  at  this  dreary 
time  of  the  year,  and  't  is  too  uncomfortable  for 
us  to  leave  her,  for  a  night  even,  to  the  discourt- 
eous hospitalities  of  old  frosty  Westwood  and  his 
thin  spouse  :  types  of  Christmas  turned  sour,  or 
the  first  of  January  born  with  teeth  and  wrinkles. 
Cordial  Illcomes,  Not  Welcomes  —  "  wretched 
New  Years  to  you:"  Discompliments  of  the 
Season.  Spring,  and  we,  will  lure  her  out  some 
fine  April  day.  Instead  pray  accept  of  our  kind- 
est congratulations. 

Besides,  I  have  been  not  a  little  disconcerted. 

On  the  night  of  our  murder  (an  hour  or  two 
before  it),  the  maid  being  busy,  I  went  out  to 
order  an  additional  pint  of  porter  for  Moxon, 
who  had  surprised  us  with  a  late  visit.  Now  I 
never  go  out  quite  disinterested  upon  such  occa- 

286 


sions.  And  I  begged  a  half-pint  of  ale  at  the  bar 
which  our  sweet-faced  landlady  good-humouredly 
complied  with,  asking  me  into  the  parlour,  but 
a  side  door  was  just  open  that  disclosed  a  more 
cheerful  blaze,  and  I  entered  where  four  people 
were  engaged  over  dominoes.  One  of  them, 
Fare,  invited  me  to  join  in  it,  partly  out  of  impu- 
dence, I  believe ;  however,  not  to  balk  a  Christ- 
mas frolic,  I  complied,  and  played  with  Danby, 
but  soon  gave  over,  having  forgot  the  game.  I 
was  surprised  with  D.  challenging  me  as  having 
known  me  in  the  Temple.  He  must  have  been 
a  child  then.  I  did  not  recognise  him,  but  per- 
fectly remembered  his  father,  who  was  a  hair- 
dresser in  the  Temple.  This  was  all  that  passed, 
as  I  went  away  with  my  beer.  Judge  my  sur- 
prise when  the  next  morning  I  was  summoned 
before  Dr.  Creswell  to  say  what  I  knew  of  the 
transaction.  My  examination  was  conducted 
with  all  delicacy,  and  of  course  I  was  soon  dis- 
missed. I  was  afraid  of  getting  into  the  papers, 
but  I  was  pleased  to  find  myself  only  noticed  as 
a  "  gentleman  whose  name  we  could  not  gather." 
Poor  D.!  the  few  words  I  spoke  to  him  were  to 
remind  him  of  a  trick  Jem  White  played  upon 
his  father.  The  boy  was  too  young  to  know 
anything  about  it.  In  the  Morning  Post  appeared 
this  paragraph :  "Yesterday  morning,  Mr.  Danby, 
the  respectable  hairdresser  in  Pump  Court  in  the 
Temple,  in  a  fit  of  delirium  threw  himself  out 
of  a  two  pair  stairs  window,  looking  into  the 

287 


passage  that  leads  to  Fig-tree  Court,  and  his  head 
was  literally  smashed  to  atoms."  White  went 
to  D.'s  to  see  how  it  operated,  and  found  D. 
quietly  weaving  wigs,  and  the  shop  full  of  law- 
yers that  had  come  to  enquire  particulars.  D. 
was  a  man  much  respected.  Indeed  hairdressers 
in  the  Inns  of  Court  are  a  superior  race  of  trades- 
men. They  generally  leave  off  rich,  as  D.  did. 
Well,  poor  D.  had  never  heard  the  story  or  prob- 
ably forgotten  it ;  and  his  company  looking  on 
me  a  little  suspiciously,  as  they  do  at  alehouses 
when  a  rather  better  drest  person  than  them- 
selves attempts  to  join  'em  —  (it  never  answers, 
—  at  least  it  seemed  so  to  me  when  I  heard  of 
the  murder) — I  went  away.  One  often  fancies 
things  afterwards  that  did  not  perhaps  strike  one 
at  the  time.  However,  after  all,  I  have  felt  queer 
ever  since.  It  has  almost  sickened  me  of  the 
Crown  and  Horseshoe,  and  I  shan't  hastily  go 
into  the  taproom  again.  I  have  made  a  long 
letter  and  can  just  say  good-bye,        C.  Lamb 

DCLXXXVL  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

January,  1833. 

I  have  a  proof  from  Dilke.  That  serves  for 
next  Saturday.  What  Forster  had  will  serve  a 
second.  I  sent  you  a  third  concluding  article  for 
him  and  us  (a  capital  hit,  I  think,  about  Cer- 
vantes), of  which  I  leave  you  to  judge  whether 
we  shall  not  want  it  to  print  before  a  third  or 

288 


even  second  week.  In  that  case  beg  D.  to  clap 
them  in  all  at  once ;  and  keep  the  Athenceums 
to  print  from.  What  I  send  is  the  concluding 
article  of  the  painters. 

Soften  down  the  title  in  the  book  to 
"Defect  of  the  Imaginative  Faculty  in  Artists." 

Consult  Dilke. 

DCLXXXVIL  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

January  3,  1833. 

Be  sure  and  let  me  have  the  Atheneeum —  or, 
if  they  don't  appear,  the  copy  back  again.  I 
have  no  other. 

I  am  glad  you  are  introduced  to  Rickman; 
cultivate  the  introduction.  I  will  not  forget  to 
write  to  him.  I  want  to  see  Blackwood,  but  not 
without  you.  We  are  yet  Emma-less.  And  so 
that  is  all  I  can  remember.  This  is  a  corkscrew. 
\Here  is  a  florid  corkscrew.]    C.  L.  Fecit 

C.  Lamb,  born  1775  ; 
nourished  about 
the  year  1832. 

DCLXXXVIII.  — TO   JOHN    FORSTER 

I  wish  you'd  go  to  Dilke's,  or  let  Mockson, 
and  ax  him  to  add  this  to  what  I  sent  him  a  few 
days  since,  or  to  continue  it  the  week  after.  The 
Plantas  &c.  are  capital.  Come  down  with  Procter 
and  Dante  on  Sunday.    I  send  you  the  last  proof 

289 


—  not  of  my  friendship.  I  knew  you  would  like 
the  title.  I  do  thoroughly.-  The  Last  Essays  of 
Elia  keeps  out  any  notion  of  its  being  a  second 
volume. 

PCLXXXIX.  —  TO   JOHN    FORSTER 

There  was  a  talk  of  Richmond  on  Sunday; 
but  we  were  hampered  with  an  unavoidable  en- 
gagement that  day,  besides  that  I  wish  to  show 
it  you  when  the  woods  are  in  full  leaf.  Can  you 
have  a  quiet  evening  here  to-night  or  to-morrow 
night  ?    We  are  certainly  at  home. 

Yours,  C.  Lamb 

DCXC  — TO    PRINTER   OF   ATHENAEUM 

January,  1833. 

I  have  read  the  enclosed  five-and-forty  times 
over.  At  last  (O  !  Argus  penetration  !)  I  have 
discovered  a  dash  that  might  be  dispensed  with. 
Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  with  such  useless 
courtesies.  I  can  well  trust  your  editor  when  I 
don't  use  queer  phrases  which  prove  themselves 
wrong  by  creating  a  distrust  in  the  sober  com- 
positor. 

DCXCI.— TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

January  24,  1833. 

Dear  Murray  !   Moxon,  I   mean,  —  I  am  not 
290 


to  be  making  you  pay  postage  every  day,  but 
cannot  let  pass  the  congratulations  of  sister, 
brother,  and  "Silk  Cloak,"  all  most  cordial  on 
your  change  of  place.  Rogers  approving,  who 
can  demur  ?  Tell  me  when  you  get  into  Dover 
St.,  and  what  the  No.  is  —  that  I  may  change 
foolscap  for  gilt,  and  plain  Mr.  for  Esquire.  I 
shall  Mister  you  while  you  stay. 

If  you  are  not  too  great  to  attend  to  it,  I  wish 
us  to  do  without  the  Sonnets  of  Sydney :  twelve 
will  take  up  as  many  pages,  and  be  too  palpable 
a  fill  up.  Perhaps  we  may  leave  them  out,  re- 
taining the  article,  but  that  is  not  worth  saving. 
I  hope  you  liked  my  Cervantes  article  which  I 
sent  you  yesterday. 

Not  an  inapt  quotation,  for  your  fallen  prede- 
cessor in  Albemarle  Street,  to  whom  you  must 
give  the  coup  du  main,  — 

Murray,  long  enough  his  country's  pride.  —  Pope. 

DCXCIL  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

February  n,  1833. 

I  wish  you  would  omit  "by  the  author  of 
Elia,"  now,  in  advertising  that  damn'd  Devil's 
Wedding. 

I  had  sneaking  hopes  you  would  have  dropt 
in  to-day ;  't  is  my  poor  birthday.  Don't  stay 
away  so.  Give  Forster  a  hint;  you  are  to  bring 
your  brother  some  day ;  sisters  in  better  weather. 

Pray  give  me  one  line  to  say  if  you  receiv'd 
291 


and  forwarded  Emma's  pacquet  to  Miss  Adams, 
and  how  Dover  St.  looks.    Adieu. 

Is  there  no  Blackwood  this  month  ? 

\Added  on  cover :] 

What  separation  will  there  be  between  the 
friend's  preface,  and  the  Essays  ?  Should  not  Last 
Essays,  &c,  head  them  ?  If  't  is  too  late,  don't 
mind.    I  don't  care  a  farthing  about  it. 

DCXCIII.  — TO    LOUISA   BADAMS 

February  15,  1833. 

Dear  Mrs.  B., — Thanks  for  your  remem- 
brance of  your  old  fellow-prisoners  at  murderous 
Enfield.  By  the  way,  Cooper,  who  turned  King's 
evidence,  is  come  back  again  whitewash'd,  has 
resumed  his  seat  at  chapel,  and  took  his  sister 
(a  fact)  up  the  Holt  White's  lane  to  shew  her 
the  topography  of  the  deed.  I  intend  asking  him 
to  supper.  They  say  he  is  pleasant  in  conversa- 
tion.   Will  you  come  and  meet  him  ? 

I  don't  know  how  we  shall  see  you.  Mary  has 
objections  to  travelling,  and  I  never  stay  out  the 
night  when  I  come  up.  Could  n't  Badams  and 
you  make  a  twenty -four  hours'  day  here?  The 
room  is  vacant  at  the  Horseshoe  where  Fare  slept 
last,  unless  you  prefer  Johnson's  last  bed. 

Mary,  Emma,  and  I  have  got  thro'  the  Inferno 
with  the  help  of  Cary ;  and  Mary  is  in  for  it.  She 
is  commencing  Tasso.    When  the  spring  is  riper, 

292 


we  will  spare  Emma  for  a  few  days,  if  you  '11  be 
kind  to  her. 

Triple  loves  and  kind  memory  to  you  both. 

C.  L. 

DCXCIV.— TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

February,  1833. 

My  dear  M.,  —  I  send  you  the  last  proof — 
not  of  my  friendship  —  pray  see  to  the  finish. 

I  think  you  will  see  the  necessity  of  adding 
those  words  after  "  Preface  "  —  and  "  Preface  " 
should  be  in  the  "  contents-table." 

I  take  for  granted  you  approve  the  title.  I  do 
thoroughly. 

Perhaps  if  you  advertise  it  in  full,  as  it  now 
stands,  the  title-page  might  have  simply  the  Last 
Essays  ofE/ia,  to  keep  out  any  notion  of  its  being 
a  second  volume. 

Well,  I  wish  us  luck  heartily  for  your  sake 
who  have  smarted  by  me. 

DCXCV.  —  TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

Dear  M.,  —  Emma  has  teized  me  to  take  her 
into  the  gallery  of  an  opera  on  Tuesday,  and  I 
have  written  for  orders.  We  came  up  this  morn- 
ing. Can  you  house  and  bed  us  after  the  opera  ? 
Miss  M.,  maybe,  won't  object  to  sharing  half  her 
bed.  And  for  me,  I  can  sleep  on  straw,  rushes, 
thorns,  Procrustes'  couch !  or  anywhere.    Do  not 

293 


write  if  you  can  take  us  in.    Write  only  if  you 
can't.  Ch.  Lamb 

DCXCVL  — TO  T.   N.   TALFOURD 

February,  1833. 

My  dear  T.,  —  Now  cannot  I  call  him  Serjeant; 
what  is  there  in  a  coif?  Those  canvas-sleeves 
protective  from  ink,  when  he  was  a  law-chit  — 
a  ChittyMng  (let  the  leathern  apron  be  apo- 
cryphal), do  more  'specially  plead  to  the  Jury 
Court  of  old  memory.  The  costume  (will  he 
agnize  it  ?)  was  as  of  a  desk-fellow  or  Socius  Plutei. 
Methought  I  spied  a  brother  ! 

That  familiarity  is  extinct  for  ever.  Curse  me 
if  I  can  call  him  Mr.  Serjeant  —  except,  mark 
me,  in  company.  Honour  where  honour  is  due; 
but  should  he  ever  visit  us  (do  you  think  he 
ever  will,  Mary?),  what  a  distinction  should  I 
keep  up  between  him  and  our  less  fortunate 
friend,  H[enry]  C[rabb]  Rfobinson]  !  Decent 
respect  shall  always  be  the  Crabb's — but,  some- 
how, short  of  reverence. 

Well,  of  my  old  friends,  I  have  lived  to  see 
two  knighted:  one  made  a  judge,  another  in 
a  fair  way  to  it.  Why  ami  restive  ?  why  stands 
my  sun  upon  Gibeah? 

Variously,  my  dear  Mrs.  Talfourd  (I  can  be 
more  familiar  with  her  !),  Mrs.  Serjeant  Talfourd, 
—  my  sister  prompts  me — (these  ladies  stand 
upon  ceremonies)  — has  the  congratulable  news 

294 


affected  the  members  of  our  small  community. 
Mary  comprehended  it  at  once,  and  entered  into 
it  heartily.  Mrs.  W[estwoodJ  was,  as  usual,  per- 
verse—  wouldn't,  or  couldn't,  understand  it. 
A  Serjeant  ?  She  thought  Mr.  T.  was  in  the  law. 
Did  n't  know  that  he  ever  'listed. 

Emma  alone  truly  sympathised.  She  had  a 
silk  gown  come  home  that  very  day,  and  has 
precedence  before  her  learned  sisters  accord- 
ingly. 

We  are  going  to  drink  the  health  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Serjeant,  with  all  the  young  serjeantry  — 
and  that  is  all  that  I  can  see  that  I  shall  get  by 
the  promotion. 

Valete,  et  mementote  amici  quondam  vestri  humil- 
limi.  C.  L. 

DCXCVII.— TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

1833. 

Dear  M.,  —  Let  us  see  you  and  your  brother 
on  Sunday. 

The  Elias  are  beautifully  got  up.  Be  cautious 
how  you  name  the  probability  of  bringing  'em 
ever  out  complete  —  till  these  are  gone  off. 
Everybody  'd  say  "O  I  '11  wait  then." 

An't  we  to  have  a  copy  of  the  Sonnets  ? 

Mind,  I  shall  insist  upon  having  no  more 
copies :  only  I  shall  take  three  or  four  more  of 
you  at  trade  price.    I  am  resolute  about  this. 

Yours  ever 

295 


DCXCVIII.  — TO   CHARLES  W.   DILKE 

February,  1833. 
CHRISTIAN  NAMES   OF  WOMEN 

TO    EDITH    s[0UTHEYJ 

In  Christian  world  Mary  the  garland  wears ! 
Rebecca  sweetens  on  a  Hebrew's  ear; 
Quakers  for  pure  Priscilla  are  more  clear; 
And  the  light  Gaul  by  amorous  Ninon  swears. 
Among  the  lesser  lights  how  Lucy  shines ! 
What  air  of  fragrance  Rosamund  throws  round  ! 
How  like  a  hymn  doth  sweet  Cecilia  sound ! 
Of  Marthas,  and  of  Abigails,  few  lines 
Have  bragg'd  in  verse.    Of  coarsest  household  stuff 
Should  homely  Joan  be  fashioned.    But  can 
You  Barbara  resist,  or  Marian  ? 
And  is  not  Clare  for  love  excuse  enough  ? 
Yet,  by  my  faith  in  numbers,  I  profess, 
These  all,  than  Saxon  Edith,  please  me  less. 

Many  thanks  for  the  life  you  have  given  us : 
I  am  perfectly  satisfied.     But  if  you  advert  to  it 

again,  I  give  you  a  delicate  hint.    Barbara  S 

shadows  under  that  name  Miss  Kelly's  early  life, 
and  I  had  the  anecdote  beautifully  from  her. 

DCXCIX.  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

Early  1833. 

No  writing,  and  no  word,  ever  passed  between 
Taylor,  or  Hessey,  and  me,  respecting  copyright. 
This  I  can  swear.  They  made  a  volume  at  their 
own  will,  and  volunteer'd  me  a  third  of  profits, 

296 


which  came  to  ^30,  which  came  to  Bilk,  and 
never  came  back  to  me.  Proctor  has  acted  a 
friendly  part  —  when  did  he  otherwise  ?    I  am 

very  sorry  to  hear  Mrs.  P as  I  suppose,  is 

not  so  well.  I  meditated  a  rallying  epistle  to  him 
on  his  Gemini  —  his  two  Sosias,  accusing  him 
of  having  acted  a  notable  piece  of  duplicity.  But 
if  his  partner  in  the  double  dealing  suffers,  it 
would  be  unseasonable.  You  cannot  remember 
me  to  him  too  kindly.  Your  chearful  letter  has 
relieved  us  from  the  dumps;  all  may  be  well.  I 
rejoice  at  your  letting  your  house  so  magnifi- 
cently. Talfourd's  letter  may  be  directed  to  him 
"  On  the  Western  Circuit."  (Is  it  the  Western  ? 
he  goes  to  Reading,  &c.)  That  is  the  way,  send 
it.  With  Blackwood  pray  send  Piozziana  and  a 
Literary  Gazette  if  you  have  one.  The  Piozzi  and 
that  shall  be  immediately  return'd,  and  I  keep 
Madame  Darblay  for  you  eventually,  a  long- 
winded  reader  at  present  having  use  of  it. 

The  weather  is  so  queer  that  I  will  not  say  I 
expect  you,  &c,  but  am  prepared  for  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  when  you  can  come. 

We  had  given  you  up  (the  postman  being 
late)  and  Emma  and  I  have  twenty  times  this 
morning  been  to  the  door  in  the  rain  to  spy  for 
him  coming. 

Well,  I  know  it  is  not  all  settled,  but  your 
letter  is  chearful  and  cheer-making. 

We  join  in  triple  love  to  you. 

Elia  &  Co. 
297 


I  am  settled  in  any  case  to  take  at  bookseller's 
price  any  copies  I  have  more.  Therefore  oblige 
me  by  sending  a  copy  of  Elia  to  Coleridge  and 
B.  Barton,  and  enquire  (at  your  leisure  of  course) 
how  I  can  send  one,  with  a  letter,  to  Walter 
Savage  Landor.  These  three  put  in  your  next 
bill  on  me.  I  am  peremptory  that  it  shall  be  so. 
These  are  all  I  can  want. 

DCC  — TO    B.  W.    PROCTER 

Enfield,  Monday. 

Dear  P ,  I  have  more  than  ^30  in  my 

house,  and  am  independent  of  quarter-day,  not 
having  received  my  pension. 

Pray  settle,  I  beg  of  you,  the  matter  with 
Mr.  Taylor.  I  know  nothing  of  bills,  but  most 
gladly  will  I  forward  to  you  that  sum  for  him, 
for  Mary  is  very  anxious  that  M[oxon]  may  not 
get  into  any  litigation.  The  money  is  literally 
rotting  in  my  desk  for  want  of  use.    I  should 

not  interfere  with  M ,  tell  M when 

you  see  him,  but  Mary  is  really  uneasy  ;  so  lay 
it  to  that  account,  not  mine. 

Yours  ever  and  two  evers,  C.  L. 

Do  it  smack  at  once,  and  I  will  explain  to 

M why  I  did  it.    It  is  simply  done  to  ease 

her  mind.  When  you  have  settled,  write,  and 
I  '11  send  the  bank-notes  to  you  twice,  in  halves. 

Deduct  from  it  your  share  in  broken  bottles, 
298 


which,  you  being  capital  in  your  lists,  I  take  to 
be  two  shillings.  Do  it  as  you  love  Mary  and 
me.    Then  Elia  's  himself  again. 

DCCI.  — TO    WILLIAM    HONE 

March  6,  1833. 

Dear  Friend,  —  Thee  hast  sent  a  Christian 
epistle  to  me,  and  I  should  not  feel  clear  if  I 
neglected  to  reply  to  it,  which  would  have  been 
sooner  if  that  vain  young  man,  to  whom  thou 
didst  intrust  it,  had  not  kept  it  back.  We  should 
rejoice  to  see  thy  outward  man  here,  especially 
on  a  day  which  should  not  be  a  first  day,  being 
liable  to  worldly  callers  in  on  that  day.  Our 
little  book  is  delayed  by  a  heathenish  injunction, 
threatened  by  the  man  Taylor.  Canst  thou  copy 
and  send,  or  bring  with  thee,  a  vanity  in  verse 
which  in  my  younger  days  I  wrote  on  friend 
Aders'  pictures  ?  Thou  wilt  find  it  in  the  book 
called  the  Table  Book. 

Tryphena  and  Tryphosa,  whom  the  world 
calleth  Mary  and  Emma,  greet  you  with  me. 

Ch.  Lamb 

6th  of  3d  month,  4th  day. 

DCCII.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

March  19,  1833. 

I  shall  expect  Forster  and  two  Moxons  on 
Sunday,  and  hope  for  Procter. 

299 


I  am  obliged  to  be  in  town  next  Monday. 
Could  we  contrive  to  make  a  party  (paying  or 
not  is  immaterial)  for  Miss  Kelly's  that  night, 
and  can  you  shelter  us  after  the  play,  I  mean 
Emma  and  me  ?  I  fear,  I  cannot  persuade  Mary 
to  join  us. 

N.  B.  I  can  sleep  at  a  public  house.  Send  an 
Elia  (mind  I  insist  on  buying  it)  to  T.  Manning, 
Esq.,  at  Sir  G.  Tuthill's,  Cavendish  Square.  Do 
write. 

DCCIII.  —  TO   EDWARD    MOXON 

March  30,  1833. 

Dear  M.,  —  Emma  and  we  are  delighted  with 
the  Sonnets,  and  she  with  her  nice  Walton.  Mary 
is  deep  in  the  novel.  Come  as  early  as  you  can. 
I  stupidly  overlook'd  your  proposal  to  meet  you 
in  Green  Lanes,  for  in  some  strange  way  I  burnt 
my  leg,  shin-quarter,  at  Forster's ;  *  it  is  laid  up  on 
a  stool,  and  Asbury  attends.  You  '11  see  us  all  as 
usual,  about  Taylor,  when  you  come. 

Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

*  Or  the  night  I  came  home,  for  I  felt  it  not 
bad  till  yesterday.  But  I  scarce  can  hobble  across 
the  room.  I  have  secured  four  places  for  night : 
in  haste.  Mary  and  E.  do  not  dream  of  anything 
we  have  discussed. 


300 


DCCIV.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

Spring,  1833. 

Dear  M.,  —  Many  thanks  for  the  books;  the 
Faust  I  will  acknowledge  to  the  author.  But 
most  thanks  for  one  immortal  sentence,  "  If  I  do 
not  cheat  him,  never  trust  me  again."  I  do  not 
know  whether  to  admire  most,  the  wit  or  justness 
of  the  sentiment.  It  has  my  cordial  approbation. 
My  sense  of  meum  and  tuum  applauds  it.  I  main- 
tain it,  the  eighth  commandment  hath  a  secret 
special  reservation,  by  which  the  reptile  is  ex- 
empt from  any  protection  from  it;  as  a  dog,  or 
a  nigger,  he  is  not  a  holder  of  property.  Not 
a  ninth  of  what  he  detains  from  the  world  is 
his  own.  "Keep  your  hands  from  picking  and 
stealing"  is  no  ways  referable  to  his  acquists. 
I  doubt  whether  bearing  false  witness  against  thy 
neighbour  at  all  contemplated  this  possible  scrub. 
Could  Moses  have  seen  the  speck  in  vision  ?  An 
ex  post  facto  law  alone  could  relieve  him,  and  we 
are  taught  to  expect  no  eleventh  commandment. 
The  outlaw  to  the  Mosaic  dispensation!  —  un- 
worthy to  have  seen  Moses'  behind — to  lay  his 
desecrating  hands  upon  Elia  !  Has  the  irriverent 
ark-toucher  been  struck  blind  I  wonder?  The 
more  I  think  of  him,  the  less  I  think  of  him. 
His  meanness  is  invisible  with  aid  of  solar  micro- 
scope; my  moral  eye  smarts  at  him.  The  less 
flea  that  bites  little  fleas!  The  great  beast!  the 
beggarly  nit! 

301 


More  when  we  meet ;  mind,  you  '11  come,  two 
of  you  —  and  could  n't  you  go  off  in  the  morning, 
that  we  may  have  a  day-long  curse  at  him,  if 
curses  are  not  dis-hallowed  by  descending  so  low  ? 
Amen.    Maledicatur  in  extremis. 

DCCV.  — TO  JOHN    FORSTER 

Swallow  your  damn'd  dinner  and  your  brandy 
and  water  fast,  and  come  immediately.  I  want 
to  take  Knowles  in  to  Emma's  only  female  friend 
for  five  minutes  only,  and  we  are  free  for  the 
evening.    I  '11  do  a  Prologue. 

DCCVI.  — TO    EDWARD  MOXON 
Last  line  alter  to,  — 

A  store  of  gratitude  is  left  behind. 

Because,  as  it  now  stands,  if  the  author  lays  his 
hand  upon  his  heart,  and  emfattically  says, — 

I  have  (so  and  so)  behind, 

the  audience  may  think  it  is  all  my**** in  a 
bandbox,  and  so  in  fact  it  is.  Yours,  by  old  and 
new  ties,  C.  Lamb 

Condemn  them,  damn  them,  hiss  them  as  you  will, 
Their  author  is  your  grateful  servant  still. 

I  want  to  see  fouster  (not  the  German  foust) 
and  you,  boy. 

302 


Mind,  I  don't  care  the  ioo,oooth  part  of  a 
bad  sixpence  if  Knowles  gets  a  Prologue  more 
to  his  mind. 

DCCVII.— TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

[No  date.     ?  April  10,  1833.] 

Dear  M.,  —  The  first  Oak  sonnet  and  the 
Nightingale,  may  show  their  faces  in  any  An- 
nual unblushing.  Some  of  the  others  are  very 
good. 

The  Sabbath  too  much  what  you  have  written 
before. 

You  are  destined  to  shine  in  sonnets,  I  tell 
you. 

Shall  we  look  for  you  Sunday,  we  did  in  vain 
Good  Friday  [April  5]. 

DCCVIII.  — TO    CHARLES   W.   DILKE 

April,  1833. 

Dear  Sir, — I  read  your  note  in  a  moment  of 
great  perturbation  with  my  landlady  and  chuck'd 
it  in  the  fire,  as  I  should  have  done  an  epistle  of 
Paul,  but  as  far  as  my  sister  recalls  the  import 
of  it,  I  reply.  The  sonnets  (36  of  them)  have 
never  been  printed,  much  less  published,  till  the 
other  day  (the  proof-sheets  only  were  in  my  hand 
about  a  fortnight  ago),  save  that  a  few  of  'em 
have  come  out  in  Annuals.  Two  vols.,  of  poetry 
of  M.'s,  have  been  publish'd,  but  they  were  not 

3°3 


these.  The  Nightingale  has  been  in  one  of  those 
gewgaws,  the  Annuals;  whether  the  other  I  sent 
you  has,  or  not,  penitus  ignoro.  But  for  heaven's 
sake  do  with  'em  what  you  like. 

Yours,  C.   L. 

DCCIX.  — TO    MRS.  WILLIAM   AYRTON 

April  (16),  1833. 

Dear  Mrs.  Ayrton, —  I  do  not  know  which  to 
admire  most,  your  kindness  or  your  patience,  in 
copying  out  that  intolerable  rabble  of  panegryc 
from  over  the  Atlantic.  By  the  way,  now  your 
hand  is  in,  I  wish  you  would  copy  out  for  me  the 
1  3th,  1 7th,  and  24th  of  Barrow's  sermons  in  folio, 
and  all  of  Tillotson's  (folio  also)  except  the  first, 
which  I  have  in  manuscript,  and  which,  you 
know,  is  Ayrton's  favourite.  Then  —  but  I  won't 
trouble  you  any  farther  just  now.  Why  does  not 
A.  come  and  see  me  ?  Can't  he  and  Henry  Crabbe 
concert  it  ?  'T  is  as  easy  as  lying  is  to  me.  Mary's 
kindest  love  to  you  both.  Elia 

DCCX.  — TO   EDWARD  MOXON 

[April  25,  1833.] 

My  dear  Moxon, — We  perfectly  agree  in  your 
arrangement.  //  has  quite  set  my  sister  s  mind  at 
rest.  She  will  come  with  you  on  Sunday,  and  re- 
turn at  eve,  and  I  will  make  comfortable  arrange- 
ments with  the  Buffams.    We  desire  to  have  you 

3°4 


here  dining  unWestwooded,  and  I  will  try  and 
get  you  a  bottle  of  choice  port.  I  have  trans- 
ferr'd  the  stock  I  told  you  to  Emma.  The  plan 
of  the  Buffams  steers  admirably  between  two 
niceties.  Tell  Emma  we  thoroughly  approve  it. 
As  our  damn'd  Times  is  a  day  after  the  fair,  I  am 
setting  off  to  Enfield  Highway  to  see  in  a  morn- 
ing paper  (alas  !  the  Publican's)  how  the  play 
ran.  Pray,  bring  four  orders  for  Mr.  Asbury  — 
undated.     In  haste  (not  for  neglect), 

Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb 

DCCXI.  — TO   EDWARD   MOXON 

[April  27,  1833.] 

Dear  M.,  —  Mary  and  I  are  very  poorly.  As- 
bury says  'tis  nothing  but  influenza.  Mr.  W. 
appears  all  but  dying  :  he  is  delirious.  Mrs.  W. 
was  taken  so  last  night  that  Mary  was  obliged  at 
midnight  to  knock  up  Mrs.  Waller  to  come  and 
sit  up  with  her.  We  have  had  a  sick  child,  who 
sleeping  or  not  sleeping,  next  me  with  a  paste- 
board partition  between,  killed  my  sleep.  The 
little  bastard  is  gone.  My  bedfellows  are  Cough 
and  Cramp,  we  sleep  three  in  a  bed.  Domestic 
arrangements  (Blue  Butcher  and  all)  devolve  on 
Mary.  Don't  come  yet  to  this  house  of  pest  and 
age.  We  propose  when  E.  and  you  agree  on  the 
time,  to  come  up  and  meet  her  at  the  Buffams', 
say  a  week  hence,  but  do  you  make  the  appoint- 
ment.   The  Lachlans  send  her  their  love. 

3°S 


I  do  sadly  want  those  two  last  Hogarths ;  and 
an't  I  to  have  the  Play  ? 

Mind  our  spirits  are  good  and  we  are  happy 
in  your  happinesses.  C.  L. 

Our  old  and  ever  loves  to  dear  Em. 

DCCXII.  — TO  REV.  JAMES  GILLMAN 

May  7.  l833- 
By  a  strange  occurrence  we  have  quitted  En- 
field for  ever.  Oh  !  the  happy  eternity  !  Who  is 
Vicar  or  Lecturer  for  that  detestable  place  con- 
cerns us  not.  But  Asbury,  surgeon  and  a  good  fel- 
low, has  offered  to  get  you  a  Mover  and  Seconder, 
and  you  may  use  my  name  freely  to  him.  Except 
him  and  Dr.  Creswell,  I  have  no  respectable 
acquaintance  in  the  dreary  village.  At  least  my 
friends  are  all  in  the  public  line,  and  it  might 
not  suit  to  have  it  moved  at  a  special  vestry  by 
John  Gage  at  the  Crown  and  Horseshoe,  licensed 
victualler,  and  seconded  by  Joseph  Horner  of 
the  Green  Dragon,  ditto,  that  the  Rev.  J.  G.  is 
a  fit  person  to  be  Lecturer,  &c. 

My  dear  James,  I  wish  you  all  success,  but 
am  too  full  of  my  own  emancipation  almost  to 
congratulate  any  one  else. 

With  both  our  loves  to  your  father  and  mo- 
ther and  glorious  S.  T.  C, 

Yours,  C.  Lamb 

306 


DCCXIII.  — TO  JOHN  FORSTER 

Edmonton,  May,  1833. 

Dear  F., —  Can  you  oblige  me  by  sending  four 
box  orders  undated  for  the  Olympic  Theatre  ? 
I  suppose  Knowles  can  get  'em.  It  is  for  the 
Waldens,  with  whom  I  live.  The  sooner  the 
better,  that  they  may  not  miss  the  Wife — I  meet 
you  at  the  Talfourds'  Saturday  week,  and  if  they 
can't,  perhaps  you  can,  give  me  a  bed. 

Yours,  ratherish  unwell,         C.  Lamb 

Or  write  immediately  to  say  if  you  can't  get 
'em. 

DCCXIV.  — TO  JOHN   FORSTER 

[May  12,  1833.] 

Dear  Boy,  —  I  send  you  the  original  E/ias, 
complete. 

When  I  am  a  little  composed,  I  shall  hope  to 
see  you  and  Proctor  here ;  maybe,  may  see  you 
first  in  London.  C.  L. 

DCCXV.— TO  MISS  RICKMAN 

May  23,  1833. 

Dear  Miss  Rickman,  —  My  being  a  day  in 
town,  and  my  being  moved  from  Enfield,  made 
your  letter  late,  and  my  reply  in  consequence. 
I  am  glad  you  like  Elia.    Perhaps,  as  Miss  Kelly 

3°7 


is  just  now  in  notoriety,  it  may  amuse  you  to 
know  that  "  Barbara  S."  is  all  of  it  true  of  ber, 
being  all  communicated  to  me  from  her  own 
mouth.  The  "  wedding  "  of  course  you  found 
out  to  be  Sally  Burney's.  As  to  Mrs.  G.,  I  know 
no  reason  why  your  dear  mother  should  not  call 
upon  her.  I  remember  Rickman  and  she  did  not 
return  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G.'s  congratulatory  visit  on 
their  wedding.  No  fresh  reason  has  occurred 
since  to  prevent  any  civilities  on  their  side.  By 
a  sudden  illness  of  my  sister  (they  now  last  half 
the  year,  in  violence  first,  and  a  succeeding  dread- 
ful depression)  I  have  come  to  the  resolution  of 
living  with  her  under  it  at  a  place  where  she  is 
under  regular  treatment,  and  am  at  Mr.  Walden's, 
Church  Street,  Edmonton.  In  a  few  weeks,  I 
should  like  one  quiet  day  among  you,  but  not 
before.  With  loves  to  father  and  mother,  and 
your  kind-hearted  sister,  whose  Christian  name 
I  am  an  heathen  if  I  just  now  can  remember, 
Yours  sincerely,  C.  Lamb 

Mrs.  Godwin  is  a  second  wife.  Mary  Wol- 
stoncroft  has  been  dead  thirty  years  ! 

DCCXVL  — TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

End  of  May  nearly  [1833]. 

Dear  Wordsworth, — Your  letter,  save  in  what 
respects  your  dear  sister's  health,  chear'd  me  in 
my  new  solitude.    Mary  is  ill  again.   Her  illnesses 

308 


encroach  yearly.  The  last  was  three  months,  fol- 
lowed by  two  of  depression  most  dreadful.  I  look 
back  upon  her  earlier  attacks  with  longing.  Nice 
little  durations  of  six  weeks  or  so,  followed  by 
complete  restoration  —  shocking  as  they  were  to 
me  then.  In  short,  half  her  life  she  is  dead  to  me, 
and  the  other  half  is  made  anxious  with  fears 
and  lookings  forward  to  the  next  shock.  With 
such  prospects,  it  seem'd  to  me  necessary  that 
she  should  no  longer  live  with  me,  and  be  flut- 
tered with  continual  removals,  so  I  am  come  to 
live  with  her,  at  a  Mr.  Walden's  and  his  wife's, 
who  take  in  patients,  and  have  arranged  to  lodge 
and  board  us  only.  They  have  had  the  care  of 
her  before.  I  see  little  of  her ;  alas !  I  too  often 
hear  her.  Sunt  lachrymae  rerum  —  and  you  and 
I  must  bear  it  — 

To  lay  a  little  more  load  on  it,  a  circumstance 
has  happen' d,  cujus  pars  magna  fui,  and  which 
at  another  crisis  I  should  have  more  rejoiced  in. 
I  am  about  to  lose  my  old  and  only  walk-com- 
panion, whose  mirthful  spirits  were  the  "youth 
of  our  house,"  Emma  Isola.  I  have  her  here 
now  for  a  little  while,  but  she  is  too  nervous 
properly  to  be  under  such  a  roof,  so  she  will 
make  short  visits,  be  no  more  an  inmate.  With 
my  perfect  approval,  and  more  than  concurrence, 
she  is  to  be  wedded  to  Moxon  at  the  end  of 
August.  So  "perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers" 
—  how  is  it? 

Now  to  the  brighter  side,  I  am  emancipated 

3°9 


from  most  hated  and  detestable  people,  the  West- 
woods.  I  am  with  attentive  people,  and  younger. 
I  am  three  or  four  miles  nearer  the  Great  City, 
coaches  half-price  less,  and  going  always,  of  which 
I  will  avail  myself.  I  have  few  friends  left  there, 
one  or  two,  tho',  most  beloved.  But  London 
streets  and  faces  cheer  me  inexpressibly,  tho'  of 
the  latter  not  one  known  one  were  remaining. 

Thank  you  for  your  cordial  reception  of  Elia. 
Inter  nos  the  Ariadne  is  not  a  darling  with  me, 
several  incongruous  things  are  in  it,  but  in  the 
composition  it  served  me  as  illustrative. 

I  want  you  in  the  popular  fallacies  to  like  the 
"  Home  that  is  no  home"  and  "  rising  with  the 
lark." 

I  am  feeble,  but  chearful  in  this  my  genial 
hot  weather, —  walk'd  sixteen  miles  yesterday. 
I  can't  read  much  in  summer  time. 

With  very  kindest  love  to  all,  and  prayers  for 
dear  Dorothy,  I  remain  most  attachedly  yours, 

C.  Lamb 

at  mr.  walden's,  church  street,  edmonton,  mid- 
dlesex. 

Moxon  has  introduced  Emma  to  Rogers,  and 
he  smiles  upon  the  project.  I  have  given  E. 
my  Milton  —  will  you  pardon  me  ?  —  in  part  of 
a  portion.  It  hangs  famously  in  his  Murray-like 
shop. 

\On  the  wrapper  is  written  :] 

Dr.  M[oxon],  inclose  this  in  a  better-looking 
310 


paper,  and  get  it  frank' d,  and  good  b'ye  till  Sun- 
day.   Come  early  —  C.  L. 

DCCXVIL— TO   SARAH    HAZLITT 

Mr.  Walden's,  Church  Street,  Edmonton, 
May  31,  1833. 

Dear  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  —  I  will  assuredly  come, 
and  find  you  out,  when  I  am  better.  I  am  driven 
from  house  and  home  by  Mary's  illness.  I  took 
a  sudden  resolution  to  take  my  sister  to  Edmon- 
ton, where  she  was  under  medical  treatment  last 
time,  and  have  arranged  to  board  and  lodge  with 
the  people.  Thank  God,  I  have  repudiated  En- 
field. I  have  got  out  of  hell,  despair  of  heaven, 
and  must  sit  down  contented  in  a  half-way  purga- 
tory. Thus  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 
But  I  am  nearer  town,  and  will  get  up  to  you 
somehow  before  long.  I  repent  not  of  my  reso- 
lution. 'T  is  late,  and  my  hand  unsteady,  so  good 
b'ye  till  we  meet.  Your  old  C.  L. 

DCCXVIIL  — TO    MATILDA   BETH  AM 

June,  1833. 

Dear  Miss  Betham,  — I  sit  down,  very  poorly, 
to  write  to  you,  being  come  to  Mr.  Walden's, 
Church  Street,  Edmonton,to  be  altogether  with  poor 
Mary,  who  is  very  ill,  as  usual,  only  that  her  ill- 
nesses are  now  as  many  months  as  they  used  to 
be  weeks  in  duration  ;  the  reason  your  letter  only 

311 


just  found  me.  I  am  saddened  with  the  havoc 
death  has  made  in  your  family.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  appreciate  the  kind  regard  of  dear  Anne ; 
Mary  will  understand  it  two  months  hence,  I 
hope ;  but  neither  she  nor  I  would  rob  you,  if 
the  legacy  will  be  of  use  to,  or  comfort  to  you. 
My  hand  shakes  so  I  can  hardly  write.  On 
Saturday  week  I  must  come  to  town,  and  will 
call  on  you  in  the  morning  before  one  o'clock. 
Till  when  I  take  kindest  leave. 

Your  old  Friend,         C.  Lamb 

DCCXIX.  — TO  MISS   MARY   BETHAM 

[June  5,  1833.] 

Dear  Mary  Betham,  —  I  remember  you  all, 
and  tears  come  out  when  I  think  on  the  years 
that  have  separated  us.  That  dear  Anne  should 
so  long  have  remember'd  us  affects  me.  My  dear 
Mary,  my  poor  sister,  is  not,  nor  will  be  for  two 
months  perhaps,  capable  of  appreciating  the  kind 
old  long  memory  of  dear  Anne  \who  had  just  died, 
leaving  j[jo  to  Mary  Lamb]. 

But  not  a  penny  will  I  take,  and  I  can  answer 
for  my  Mary  when  she  recovers,  if  the  sum  left 
can  contribute  in  any  way  to  the  comfort  of 
Matilda. 

We  will  halve  it,  or  we  will  take  a  bit  of  it, 
as  a  token,  rather  than  wrong  her.  So  pray 
consider  it  as  an  amicable  arrangement.  I  write 
in  great  haste,  or  you  won't  get  it  before  you  go. 

312 


We  do  not  want  the  money ;  but  if  dear  Matilda 
does  not  much  want  it,  why,  we  will  take  our 
thirds.    God  bless  you.  C.  Lamb 

I  am  not  at  Enfield,  but  at  Mr.  Walden's, 
Church  Street,  Edmonton,  Middlesex. 

DCCXX.  — TO    MRS.    NORRIS 

[Postmarked]  July  10,  1833. 

Dear  Mrs.  Norris,  —  I  wrote  to  Jekyll,  and 
sent  him  an  Elia.  This  is  his  kind  answer.  So  you 
see  that  he  will  be  glad  to  see  any  of  you  that 
shall  be  in  town,  and  will  arrange,  if  you  prefer 
it,  to  accompany  you.  If  you  are  at  Brighton, 
Betsey  will  forward  this.  I  have  cut  off  the 
name  at  the  bottom  to  give  to  a  foolish  autograph 
fancier.  Love  to  you  all.  Emma  sends  her  very 
kindest.  C.  Lamb 

DCCXXI.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

[July  14,  1833.] 

Dear  M.,  —  The  Hogarths  are  delicate.  Per- 
haps it  will  amuse  Emma  to  tell  her  that,  a  day 
or  two  since,  Miss  Norris  (Betsy)  call'd  to  me  on 
the  road  from  London  from  a  gig  conveying  her 
to  Widford,  and  engaged  me  to  come  down  this 
afternoon.  I  think  I  shall  stay  only  one  night ; 
she  would  have  been  glad  of  E.'s  accompani- 
ment, but  I  would  not  disturb  her,  and  Mrs.  N. 

SIS 


is  coming  to  town  on  Monday,  so  it  would  not 
have  suited.  Also,  C.  V.Le  Grice  gave  me  a  din- 
ner at  Johnny  Gilpin's  yesterday,  where  we  talk'd 
of  what  old  friends  were  taken  or  left  in  the 
thirty  years  since  we  had  met. 

I  shall  hope  to  see  her  on  Tuesday. 

To  Bless  you  both,  C.  L. 

DCCXXII.  — TO    MRS.    NORRIS 

Edmonton  [July  18,  1833]. 

Dear  Mrs.  N orris,  —  I  got  home  safe.  Pray 
accept  these  little  books,  and  some  of  you  give 
me  a  line  to  say  you  received  them.  Love  to  all, 
and  thanks  for  three  agreeable  days.  I  send  them 
this  afternoon  (Tuesday)  by  Canter's  coach.  Are 
the  little  girls  packed  safe  ?  They  can  come  in 
straw,  and  have  eggs  under  them.  Ask  them  to 
lie  soft,  'cause  eggs  smash.  Elia 

DCCXXIII.  — TO    THOMAS   ALLSOP 

My  dear  Allsop, —  I  think  it  will  be  impos- 
sible for  us  to  come  to  Highgate  in  the  time  you 
propose.  We  have  friends  coming  to-morrow, 
who  may  stay  the  week ;  and  we  are  in  a  bustle 
about  Emma's  leaving  us  —  so  we  will  put  off 
the  hope  of  seeing  Mrs.  Allsop  till  we  come  to 
town,  after  Emma's  going,  which  is  in  a  fort- 
night and  a  half,  when  we  mean  to  spend  a  time 

3H 


in  town,  but  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  on  Sun- 
day, or  any  day. 

In  haste.    Hope  our  little  Porter  does. 

Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

DCCXXIV.  — TO    MR.    TUFF 

[Edmonton,  1833.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  learn  that  Covent  Garden,  from 
its  thin  houses  every  night,  is  likely  to  be  shut 
up  after  Saturday ;  so  that  no  time  is  to  be  lost 
in  using  the  orders.     Yours, 

C.  Lamb 

DCCXXV.  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

July  24,  1833. 

For  God's  sake,  give  Emma  no  more  watches. 
One  has  turn'd  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and 
insulting.  She  said  something  very  unpleasant  to 
our  old  Clock  in  the  passage,  as  if  he  did  not  keep 
time,  and  yet  he  had  made  her  no  appointment. 
She  takes  it  out  every  instant  to  look  at  the  mo- 
ment-hand. She  lugs  us  out  into  the  fields,  because 
there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  "  Pray,  Sir,  can  you 
tell  us  what 's  a  Clock,"  and  she  answers  them 
punctually.  She  loses  all  her  time  looking  "  what 
the  time  is."  I  overheard  her  whispering,  "Just 
so  many  hours,  minutes,  &c,  to  Tuesday  —  I 
think  St.  George's  goes  too  slow  "  —  This  little 
present  of  Time,  why,  't  is  Eternity  to  her  — 

3*5 


What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread 
watch  ? 

She  has  spoil'd  some  of  the  movements.  Be- 
tween ourselves,  she  has  kissed  away  "  half-past 
1 2,"  which  I  suppose  to  be  the  canonical  hour  in 
Hanover  Sq. 

Well,  if  "  love  me,  love  my  watch  "  answers, 
she  will  keep  time  to  you  —  It  goes  right  by  the 
Horse  Guards  — 

[On  the  next  page:}  Emma  has  kist  this  yel- 
low wafer  —  a  hint. 

Dearest  M.,  —  Never  mind  opposite  nonsense. 
She  does  not  love  you  for  the  watch,  but  the 
watch  for  you. 

I  will  be  at  the  wedding,  and  keep  the  30th 
July,  as  long  as  my  poor  months  last  me,  as  a  fes- 
tival gloriously.  Yours  ever,  Elia 

We  have  not  heard  from  Cambridge.  I  will 
write  the  moment  we  do. 

Edmonton,  24th  July,  3.20  post  mer.  minutes 
4  instants  by  Emma's  watch. 

DCCXXVI.  —  CHARLES  AND  MARY  LAMB 
TO  EDWARD  AND  EMMA  MOXON 

July  31*  l833- 

Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon,  — Time  very  short. 
I  wrote  to  Miss  Fryer,  and  had  the  sweetest  letter 
about  you,  Emma,  that  ever  friendship  dictated. 

316 


"  I  am  full  of  good  wishes ;  I  am  crying  with  good 
wishes,"  she  says ;  but  you  shall  see  it. 

Dear  Moxon,  —  I  take  your  writing  most 
kindly  and  shall  most  kindly  your  writing  from 
Paris. 

I  want  to  crowd  another  letter  to  Miss  Fry 
into  the  little  time  after  dinner  before  Post  time. 

So  with  20000  congratulations, 

Yours,  C.  L. 

I  am  calm,  sober,  happy.  Turn  over  for  the 
reason. 

I  got  home  from  Dover  Street,  by  Evens,  half 
as  sober  as  a  judge.  I  am  turning  over  a  new  leaf, 
as  I  hope  you  will  now. 

\On  the  next  leaf  Mary  Lamb  wrote:] 
My  dear  Emma  and  Edward  Moxon,  —  Ac- 
cept my  sincere  congratulations,  and  imagine 
more  good  wishes  than  my  weak  nerves  will  let 
me  put  into  good  set  words.  The  dreary  blank 
of  unanswered  questions  which  I  ventured  to  ask 
in  vain  was  cleared  up  on  the  wedding-day  by 
Mrs.  W.  taking  a  glass  of  wine,  and,  with  a  total 
change  of  countenance,  begged  leave  to  drink 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon's  health.  It  restored  me, 
from  that  moment,  as  if  by  an  electrical  stroke,  to 
the  entire  possession  of  my  senses :  I  never  felt  so 
calm  and  quiet  after  a  similar  illness  as  I  do  now. 
I  feel  as  if  all  tears  were  wiped  from  my  eyes,  and 
all  care  from  my  heart.  Mary  Lamb 

3*7 


[At  the  foot  of  this  letter  Charles  Lamb  added  i\ 
Dears    Again,  —  Your    letter    interrupted    a 

seventh  game  at  picquet  which  we  were  having, 

after  walking  to  Wright's  and  purchasing  shoes. 

We  pass  our  time  in  cards,  walks,  and  reading. 

We  attack  Tasso  soon.  C.   L. 

Never  was  such  a  calm  or  such  a  recovery. 
T  is  her  own  words,  undictated. 

DCCXXVII.  — TO    LOUISA    BADAMS 

August  20,  1833. 

Dear  Mrs.  Badams,  —  I  was  at  church  as  the 
grave  Father,  and  behaved  tolerably  well,  except 
at  first  entrance  when  Emma  in  a  whisper  re- 
pressed a  nascent  giggle.  I  am  not  fit  for  wed- 
dings or  burials.  Both  incite  a  chuckle.  Emma 
looked  as  pretty  as  Pamela,  and  made  her  re- 
sponses delicately  and  firmly.  I  tripped  a  little 
at  the  altar,  was  engaged  in  admiring  the  altar- 
piece,  but,  recalled  seasonably  by  a  Parsonic 
rebuke,  "Who  gives  this  woman?"  was  in  time 
resolutely  to  reply  "  I  do."  Upon  the  whole  the 
thing  went  offdecently  and  devoutly.  Your  dodg- 
ing post  is  excellent ;  I  take  it,  it  was  at  Wilsdon. 
We  shall  this  week  or  next  dine  at  Islington.  I 
am  writing  to  know  the  day,  and  in  that  case  see 
you  the  next  day  and  talk  of  beds.  My  lodging 
may  be  on  the  cold  floor.  I  long  for  a  hard  fought 
game  with  Badams. 

318 


With  haste  and  thanks  for  your  unusually  en- 
tertaining letter,  yours  truly, 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 

I  will  write  to  Miss  Jas.  soon  —  was  meditat- 
ing it. 

DCCXXVIII.  — TO    MISS    M.    BETH  AM 

August  23,  1833. 

Dear  Miss  B., — Your  bridal  verses  are  very 
beautiful.  Emma  shall  have  them,  as  here  cor- 
rected, when  they  return.  They  are  in  France. 
The  verses,  I  repeat,  are  sweetly  pretty.  I  know 
nobody  in  these  parts  that  wants  a  servant;  in- 
deed, I  have  no  acquaintance  in  this  new  place, 
and  rarely  come  to  town. 

The  rule  of  Christ's  Hospital  is  rigorous,  that 
the  marriage  certificate  of  the  parents  be  pro- 
duced, previous  to  the  presentation  of  a  boy,  so 
that  your  renowned  protege  has  no  chance. 

Never  trouble  yourself  about  Dyer's  neigh- 
bour. He  will  only  tell  you  a  parcel  of  fibs,  and 
is  impracticable  to  any  advice.  He  has  been 
long  married  and  parted,  and  has  to  pay  his  wife 
a  weekly  allowance  to  this  day,  besides  other  in- 
cumbrances. 

In  haste  and  headake,  yours, 

^Signature  lostl\ 


3IQ 


DCCXXIX.  — TO    H.    F.    CARY 

September  9,  1833. 

Dear  Sir,  —  Your  packet  I  have  only  just  re- 
ceived, owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  absence  of 
Moxon,  who  is  flaunting  it  about  a  la  Parisienne 
with  his  new  bride,  our  Emma,  much  to  his 
satisfaction  and  not  a  little  to  our  dulness.  We 
shall  be  quite  well  by  the  time  you  return  from 
Worcestershire,  and  most  most  (observe  the  repe- 
tition) glad  to  see  you  here  or  anywhere. 

I  will  take  my  time  with  Darley's  act.  I  wish 
poets  would  write  a  little  plainer;  he  begins  some 
of  his  words  with  a  letter  which  is  unknown  to 
the  English  typography.    Yours,  most  truly, 

C.  Lamb 

P.  S.  Pray  let  me  know  when  you  return. 
We  are  at  Mr.  Walden's,  Church  Street,  Ed- 
monton; no  longer  at  Enfield.  You  will  be 
amused  to  hear  that  my  sister  and  I  have,  with 
the  aid  of  Emma,  scrambled  through  the  Inferno 
by  the  blessed  furtherance  of  your  polar-star  trans- 
lation. I  think  we  scarce  left  anything  unmade- 
out.  But  our  partner  has  left  us,  and  we  have 
not  yet  resumed.  Mary's  chief  pride  in  it  was 
that  she  should  some  day  brag  of  it  to  you. 
Your  Dante  and  Sandys'  Ovid  are  the  only  help- 
mates of  translations.  Neither  of  you  shirk  a 
word. 

Fairfax's  Tasso  is  no  translation  at  all.  It 's 
320 


better  in  some  places ;  but  it  merely  observes  the 
number  of  stanzas;  as  for  images,  similes,  &c, 
he  finds  'em  himself,  and  never  "  troubles  Peter 
for  the  matter." 

In  haste,  dear  Cary,  yours  ever, 

C.  Lamb 

Has  Moxon  sent  you  Elia,  second  volume  ?  if 
not,  he  shall.    Taylor  and  we  are  at  law  about  it. 

DCCXXX.— TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

September  26,  1833. 

We  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  Emma,  dear  to 
everybody.  Mary's  spirits  are  much  better,  and 
she  longs  to  see  again  our  twelve  years'  friend. 
You  shall  afternoon  sip  with  me  a  bottle  of 
superexcellent  Port,  after  deducting  a  dinner- 
glass  for  them.    We  rejoyce  to  have  E.  come,  the 

first  visit,  without  Miss ,  who,  I  trust,  will 

yet  behave  well ;  but  she  might  perplex  Mary 
with  questions. 

Pindar  sadly  wants  Preface  and  notes.  Pray, 
E.,  get  to  Snow  Hill  before  twelve,  for  we  dine 
before  two.  We  will  make  it  two.  By  mistake 
I  gave  you  Miss  Betham's  letter,  with  the  ex- 
quisite verses,  which  pray  return  to  me,  or  if  it 
be  an  improved  copy,  give  me  the  other,  and 
albumize  mine,  keeping  the  signature.  It  is  too 
pretty  a  family  portrait,  for  you  not  to  cherish. 

Your  loving  friends,    C.  Lamb,  M.  Lamb 
321 


NOTE 

[The  following  poem  was  addressed  to  Moxon  by  Lamb, 
and  printed  in  The  Atkenaum,  December  7,  1833  : 

TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS   MARRIAGE 

What  makes  a  happy  wedlock  ?    What  has  fate 

Not  given  to  thee  in  thy  well-chosen  mate  ? 

Good  sense  —  good  humour  ;  —  these  are  trivial  things, 

Dear  M ,  that  each  trite  encomiast  sings. 

But  she  hath  these,  and  more.    A  mind  exempt 
From  every  low-bred  passion,  where  contempt, 
Nor  envy,  nor  detraction,  ever  found 
A  harbour  yet  ;  an  understanding  sound  ; 
Just  views  of  right  and  wrong  ;  perception  full 
Of  the  deformed,  and  of  the  beautiful, 
In  life  and  manners  ;  wit  above  her  sex, 
Which,  as  a  gem,  her  sprightly  converse  decks  ; 
Exuberant  fancies,  prodigal  of  mirth, 
To  gladden  woodland  walk,  or  winter  hearth  ; 
A  noble  nature,  conqueror  in  the  strife 
Of  conflict  with  a  hard  discouraging  life, 
Strengthening  the  veins  of  virtue,  past  the  power 
Of  those  whose  days  have  been  one  silken  hour, 
Spoil'd  fortune's  pamper'd  offspring  ;  a  keen  sense 
Alike  of  benefit,  and  of  offence, 
With  reconcilement  quick,  that  instant  springs 
From  the  charged  heart  with  nimble  angel  wings  ; 
While  grateful  feelings,  like  a  signet  sign'd 
By  a  strong  hand,  seem  burnt  into  her  mind. 
If  these,  dear  friend,  a  dowry  can  confer 
Richer  than  land,  thou  hast  them  all  in  her ; 
And  beauty,  which  some  hold  the  chiefest  boon, 
Is  in  thy  bargain  for  a  make-weight  thrown.] 


DCCXXXL  — TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

October  17,  1833. 

Dear  M.,  —  Get  me  Shirley  (there  's  a  dear 
fellow)  and  send  it  soon.  We  sadly  want  books, 
and  this  will  be  readable  again  and  again,  and 
pay  itself.    Tell  Emma  I  grieve  for  the  poor  self- 

322 


punishing  self-baffling  lady ;  with  all  our  hearts 
we  grieve  for  the  pain  and  vexation  she  has  en- 
counter'd  ;  but  we  do  not  swerve  a  pin's-thought 
from  the  propriety  of  your  measures.  God  com- 
fort her,  and  there  's  an  end  of  a  painful  neces- 
sity. But  I  am  glad  she  goes  to  see  her.  Let  her 
keep  up  all  the  kindness  she  can  between  them. 
In  a  week  or  two  I  hope  Mary  will  be  stout 
enough  to  come  among  ye,  but  she  is  not  now, 
and  I  have  scruples  of  coming  alone,  as  she  has 
no  pleasant  friend  to  sit  with  her  in  my  absence. 
We  are  lonely.  I  fear  the  visits  must  be  mostly 
from  you.  By  the  way  omnibuses  are  ij\  yi. 
and  coach  insides  sunk  to  is.  6d. —  a  hint.  With- 
out disturbance  to  yourselves,  or  upsetting  the 
economy  of  the  dear  new  mistress  of  a  family, 
come  and  see  us  as  often  as  ever  you  can.  We 
are  so  out  of  the  world,  that  a  letter  from  either 
of  you  now  and  then,  detailing  anything,  book 
or  town  news,  is  as  good  as  a  newspaper.  I  have 
desperate  colds,  cramps,  megrims,  &c,  but  do 
not  despond.  My  fingers  are  numb'd,  as  you  see 
by  my  writing.  Tell  E.  I  am  very  good  also.  But 
we  are  poor  devils ;  that 's  the  truth  of  it.  I 
won't  apply  to  Dilke — just  now  at  least;  I  sin- 
cerely hope  the  pastoral  air  of  Dover  St.  will 
recruit  poor  Harriet.  With  best  loves  to  all. 
Yours  ever,  C.  L. 

Ryle  and  Lowe  dined  here  on  Sunday;  the 
manners   of   the   latter,   so   gentlemanly!    have 

323 


attracted  the  special  admiration  of  our  landlady. 
She  guest  R.  to  be  nearly  of  my  age.  He  always 
had  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  I  fear  I 
shall  always  have  the  opposite.  Tell  me  anything 
of  Foster  [Forster]  or  anybody.  Write  anything 
you  think  will  amuse  me.  I  do  dearly  hope  in 
a  week  or  two  to  surprise  you  with  our  appear- 
ance in  Dover  St. 

DCCXXXIL— TO    EDWARD    MOXON 

November  29,  1833. 

Mary  is  of  opinion  with  me  that  two  of  these 
Sonnets  are  of  a  higher  grade  than  any  poetry 
you  have  done  yet.  The  one  to  Emma  is  so 
pretty  !  I  have  only  allowed  myself  to  transpose 
a  word  in  the  third  line.  Sacred  shall  it  be  for 
any  intermeddling  of  mine.  But  we  jointly  beg 
that  you  will  make  four  lines  in  the  room  of  the 
four  last.  Read  Darby  and  Joan,  in  Mrs.  Moxon's 
first  album.  There  you  '11  see  how  beautiful  in 
age  the  looking  back  to  youthful  years  in  an  old 
couple  is.  But  it  is  a  violence  to  the  feelings  to 
anticipate  that  time  in  youth.  I  hope  you  and 
Emma  will  have  many  a  quarrel  and  many  a 
make-up  (and  she  is  beautiful  in  reconciliation  !) 
before  the  dark  days  shall  come,  in  which  ye 
shall  say  "  there  is  small  comfort  in  them."  You 
have  begun  a  sort  of  character  of  Emma  in  them 
very  sweetly;  carry  it  on,  if  you  can,  through 
the  last  lines. 

324 


I  love  the  sonnet  to  my  heart,  and  you  shall 
finish  it,  and  I  '11  be  damn'd  if  I  furnish  a  line 
towards  it.    So  much  for  that.    The  next  best  is, 

TO  THE  OCEAN 

Ye  gallant  winds,  if  e'er  your  lusty  cheeks 

Blew  longing  lover  to  his  mistress'  side, 

O,  puff  your  loudest,  spread  the  canvas  wide, 

is  spirited.  The  last  line  I  altered,  and  have  re- 
altered  it  as  it  stood.  It  is  closer.  These  two 
are  your  best.  But  take  a  good  deal  of  time  in 
finishing  the  first.  How  proud  should  Emma  be 
of  her  poets ! 

Perhaps  "O  Ocean"  (though  I  like  it)  is  too 
much  of  the  open  vowels,  which  Pope  objects 
to.  "Great  Ocean!"  is  obvious.  "To  save  sad 
thoughts,"  I  think  is  better  (though  not  good) 
than  for  the  mind  to  save  herself.  But  't  is  a 
noble  sonnet.  St.  Cloud  I  have  no  fault  to  find 
with. 

If  I  return  the  Sonnets,  think  it  no  disrespect ; 
for  I  look  for  a  printed  copy.  You  have  done 
better  than  ever.  And  now  for  a  reason  I  did 
not  notice  'em  earlier:  on  Wednesday  they  came, 
and  on  Wednesday  I  was  a-gadding.  Mary  gave 
me  a  holiday,  and  I  set  off  to  Snow  Hill.  From 
Snow  Hill  I  deliberately  was  marching  down, 
with  noble  Holborn  before  me,  framing  in 
mental  cogitation  a  map  of  the  dear  London  in 
prospect,  thinking  to  traverse  Wardour  Street, 
&c,  when  diabolically  I  was  interrupted  by 

325 


Heigh-ho! 

Little  Barrow!  — 
Emma  knows  him,  —  and  prevailed  on  to  spend 
the  day  at  his  sister's,  where  was  an  album,  and 
(O  march  of  intellect!)  plenty  of  literary  con- 
versation, and  more  acquaintance  with  the  state 
of  modern  poetry  than  I  could  keep  up  with. 
I  was  positively  distanced.  Knowles'  play,  which, 
epilogued  by  me,  lay  on  the  piano,  alone  made  me 
hold  up  my  head.  When  I  came  home  I  read  your 
letter,  and  glimpsed  at  your  beautiful  sonnet, — 

Fair  art  thou  as  the  morning,  my  young  bride, 

and  dwelt  upon  it  in  a  confused  brain,  but  deter- 
mined not  to  open  them  till  next  day,  being  in 
a  state  not  to  be  told  of  at  Chatteris.  Tell  it  not 
in  Gath,  Emma,  lest  the  daughters  triumph !  I 
am  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  I  wish  you  could 
come  on  Tuesday  with  your  fair  bride.  Why 
can't  you  ?  Do.  We  are  thankful  to  your  sister 
for  being  of  the  party.  Come,  and  bring  a  sonnet 
on  Mary's  birthday.  Love  to  the  whole  Mox- 
onry,  and  tell  E.  I  every  day  love  her  more,  and 
miss  her  less.  Tell  her  so  from  her  loving  uncle, 
as  she  has  let  me  call  myself.  I  bought  a  fine 
embossed  card  yesterday,  and  wrote  for  the  Pawn- 
brokeress's  album.  She  is  a  Miss  Brown,  engaged 
to  a  Mr.  White.  One  of  the  lines  was  (I  forget 
the  rest  —  but  she  had  them  at  twenty-four 
hours'  notice;  she  is  going  out  to  India  with  her 
husband), — 

326 


May  your  fame 
And  fortune,  Frances,  Whiten  with  your  name ! 

Not  bad  as  a  pun.    I  wil  expect  you  before  two 
on  Tuesday.    I  am  well  and  happy,  tell  E. 

DCCXXXIIL— TO  MISS  FRANCES  BROWN 

Edmonton,  November,  1833. 

Dear  Frances,  —  Will  you  accept  these  poor 
lines,  and  curl  them  into  your  album,  clipping 
the  corners?  They  will  cost  you  threepence, 
which  your  Aunt  Mary  will  pay  you,  and  then 
she  will  owe  me  ninepence,  from  the  old  shilling 
she  lost,  as  she  says,  in  the  sawpit.  My  sister  joins 
me  in  remembrances  to  you  all.        C.  Lamb 

I  hope  your  sweetheart's  name  is  White. 
Else  it  will  spoil  all.  May  be  't  is  Black.  Then 
we  must  alter  it.  And  may  your  fortunes  blacken 
with  your  name. 

DCCXXXIV.  — TO  CHARLES    W.    DILKE 

Middle  December,  1833. 

I  hoped  R.  would  like  his  sonnet,  but  I  fear'd 
S.,  that  fine  old  man,  might  not  quite  like  the  turn 
of  it.  This  last  was  penn'd  almost  literally  ex- 
tempore. Your  Laureat 

Is  S.'s  Christian  name  Thomas?  if  not,  cor- 
rect it. 

327 


NOTE 
[«  R." —  Rogers  ;  "  S."  Stothard.    See  next  letter.] 

DCCXXXV.  — TO    SAMUEL    ROGERS 

December  21,  1833. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  Your  book,  by  the  unremit- 
ting punctuality  of  your  publisher,  has  reached 
me  thus  early.  I  have  not  opened  it,  nor  will  till 
to-morrow,  when  I  promise  myself  a  thorough 
reading  of  it.  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  was  the 
first  school  present  I  made  to  Mrs.  Moxon  —  it 
had  those  nice  wood-cuts;  and  I  believe  she 
keeps  it  still.  Believe  me,  that  all  the  kindness 
you  have  shown  to  the  husband  of  that  excellent 
person  seems  done  unto  myself.  I  have  tried 
my  hand  at  a  sonnet  in  the  Times.  But  the  turn 
I  gave  it,  though  I  hoped  it  would  not  displease 
you,  I  thought  might  not  be  equally  agreeable 
to  your  artist.  I  met  that  dear  old  man  at  poor 
Henry's  —  with  you — and  again  at  Cary's  — 
and  it  was  sublime  to  see  him  sit  deaf  and  enjoy 
all  that  was  going  on  in  mirth  with  the  company. 
He  reposed  upon  the  many  graceful,  many  fan- 
tastic images  he  had  created;  with  them  he 
dined  and  took  wine. 

I  have  ventured  at  an  antagonist  copy  of  verses 
in  the  Athenaum  to  him,  in  which  he  is  as  every- 
thing and  you  as  nothing.  He  is  no  lawyer  who 
cannot  take  two  sides.  But  I  am  jealous  of  the 
combination  of  the  sister  arts.    Let  them  sparkle 

328 


apart.  What  injury  (short  of  the  theatres)  did 
not  Boydell's  Shakespeare  Gallery  do  me  with 
Shakespeare  ?  —  to  have  Opie's  Shakespeare, 
Northcote's  Shakespeare,  light-headed  Fuseli's 
Shakespeare,  heavy-headed  Romney's  Shake- 
speare, wooden-headed  West's  Shakespeare 
(though  he  did  the  best  in  Lear},  deaf-headed 
Reynolds's  Shakespeare,  instead  of  my,  and  every- 
body's Shakespeare.  To  be  tied  down  to  an 
authentic  face  of  Juliet!  To  have  Imogen's  por- 
trait !  To  confine  the  illimitable !  I  like  you 
and  Stothard  (you  best),  but  "  out  upon  this  half- 
faced  fellowship."  Sir,  when  I  have  read  the 
book  I  may  trouble  you,  through  Moxon,  with 
some  faint  criticisms.  It  is  not  the  flatteringest 
compliment,  in  a  letter  to  an  author,  to  say  you 
have  not  read  his  book  yet.  But  the  devil  of  a 
reader  he  must  be  who  prances  through  it  in  five 
minutes,  and  no  longer  have  I  received  the  parcel. 
It  was  a  little  tantalizing  to  me  to  receive  a  letter 
from  Landor,  Gebir  Landor,  from  Florence,  to 
say  he  was  just  sitting  down  to  read  my  Elia, 
just  received,  but  the  letter  was  to  go  out  before 
the  reading.  There  are  calamities  in  authorship 
which  only  authors  know.  I  am  going  to  call 
on  Moxon  on  Monday,  if  the  throng  of  carriages 
in  Dover  Street  on  the  morn  of  publication  do 
not  barricade  me  out. 

With  many  thanks,  and  most  respectful  re- 
membrances to  your  sister,  yours, 

C.  Lamb 

329 


Have  you  seen  Coleridge's  happy  exemplifica- 
tion in  English  of  the  Ovidian  elegiac  metre  ?  — 

In  the  Hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  current, 
In  the  Pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  down. 

My  sister  is  papering  up  the  book  —  careful 
soul ! 

DCCXXXVL  — TO  CHARLES  W.    DILKE 

I  have  read  the  enclosed  five  and  forty  times 
over.  I  have  submitted  it  to  my  Edmonton 
friends;  at  last  (O  Argus'  penetration),  I  have 
discovered  a  dash  that  might  be  dispensed  with. 
Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  with  such  useless  cour- 
tesies. I  can  well  trust  your  editor,  when  I  don't 
use  queer  phrases  which  prove  themselves  wrong 
by  creating  a  distrust  in  the  sober  compositor. 

DCCXXXVII.  — TO    CHARLES   W.    DILKE 

Church  Street,  Edmonton.    [No  date.] 

May  I  now  claim  of  you  the  benefit  of  the 
loan  of  some  books  ?  Do  not  fear  sending  too 
many.  But  do  not  if  it  be  irksome  to  yourself, — 
such  as  shall  make  you  say,  "  Damn  it,  here  's 
Lamb's  box  come  again."  Dog's-leaves  ensured! 
Any  light  stuff:  no  natural  history  or  useful 
learning,  such  as  Pyramids,  Catacombs,  Giraffes, 
Adventures  in  Southern  Africa,  Sec,  &c. 

With  our  joint  compliments,  yours, 

C.  Lamb 

33° 


Novels  for  the  last  two  years,  or  further  back — 
nonsense  of  any  period. 

DCCXXXVIIL  — TO    CHARLES   W.    DILKE 

[No  date.     Spring,  1834.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  return  forty-four  volumes  by 
Tate.  If  they  are  not  all  your  own,  and  some  of 
mine  have  slipt  in,  I  do  not  think  you  will  lose 
much.  Shall  I  go  on  with  the  Table  Talk?  I 
will,  if  you  like  it,  when  the  Culinary  article  has 
appear' d. 

Robins,  the  carrier,  from  the  Swan,  Snow  Hill, 
will  bring  any  more  contributions,  thankfully  to 
be  receiv'd ;   I  pay  backwards  and  forwards. 

C.  Lamb 

DCCXXXIX.  — TO   THOMAS   HOOD 

1834. 

Dear  Hood, —  I  have  been  infinitely  amused 
with  Tylney  Hall.  'T  is  a  medley,  without  con- 
fusion, of  farce,  melodrame,  comedy,  tragedy, 
punchery,  what-not.  The  Fete  is  as  good  as 
H.'s  Strollers  in  the  Barn.  For  the  serious  part, 
the  warning  Puci  shouts  over  Raby's  head  is 
most  impressive.  Duly  Luckless  Joe  should  not 
have  been  halter' d;  his  Fates  were  brazen  [?], 
and  not  absolutely  inexorable  Clothos,  and  the 
Creole  should  have  been  hanged.  The  puns  are 
so  neat  that  the  most  inveterate  foe  to  that  kind 

331 


of  joke,  not  being  expectant  of  'em,  might  read 
it  all  through  and  not  find  you  out.  With  kind 
remembrances  to  Mrs.  Hood,  yours, 

C.  Lamb 

My  sister,  I  hope,  will  relish  it  by  and  by,  but 
it  puzzles  her  to  read  above  a  page  or  two  a  day. 

DCCXL.  —  TO  MARY  BETHAM 

Edmonton,  January  24,  1834. 

Dear  Mary  Betham,  —  I  received  the  bill,  and 
when  it  is  payable,  some  ten  or  twelve  days  hence, 
will  punctually  do  with  the  overplus  as  you  direct. 
I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  it  came  to 
hand,  so  I  have  not  waited  for  the  uncertainty 
of  when  your  nephew  sets  out.  I  suppose  my 
receipt  will  serve,  for  poor  Mary  is  not  in  a 
capacity  to  sign  it.  After  being  well  from  the 
end  of  July  to  the  end  of  December,  she  was 
taken  ill  almost  on  the  first  day  of  the  New  Year, 
and  is  as  bad  as  poor  creature  can  be.  I  expect 
her  fever  to  last  fourteen  or  fifteen  weeks  —  if 
she  gets  well  at  all,  which  every  successive  illness 
puts  me  in  fear  of.  She  has  less  and  less  strength 
to  throw  it  off,  and  they  leave  a  dreadful  depres- 
sion after  them.  She  was  quite  comfortable  a  few 
weeks  since,  when  Matilda  came  down  here  to 
see  us. 

You  shall  excuse  a  short  letter,  for  my  hand 
is  unsteady.    Indeed,  the  situation  I  am  in  with 

332 


her  shakes  me  sadly.  She  was  quite  able  to  appre- 
ciate the  kind  legacy  while  she  was  well.  Imag- 
ine her  kindest  love  to  you,  which  is  but  buried 
a  while,  and  believe  all  the  good  wishes  for  your 
restoration  to  health  from  C.  Lamb 

DCCXLI.  — TO  EDWARD  MOXON 

[January  28,  1834.] 

I  met  with  a  man  at  my  half-way  house,  who 
told  me  many  anecdotes  of  Kean's  younger  life. 
He  knew  him  thoroughly.  His  name  is  Wyatt, 
living  near  the  Bell,  Edmonton.  Also  he  referred 
me  to  West,  a  publican,  opposite  St.  George's 
Church,  Southwark,  who  knew  him  more  inti- 
mately. Is  it  worth  Forster's  while  to  enquire 
after  them  ?  C.  L. 

DCCXLII.  —  TO  WILLIAM  HONE 

Church  Street,  Edmonton, 
February  7,  1834. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  compassionate  very  much 
your  failure  and  your  infirmities.  I  am  in  afflic- 
tion. I  am  come  to  Edmonton  to  live  altogether 
with  Mary,  at  the  house  where  she  is  nursed,  and 
where  we  see  nobody  while  she  is  ill,  which  is, 
alas  !   the  greater  part  of  the  year  now. 

I  cannot  but  think  your  application,  with  a 
full  statement,  to  the  Literary  Fund  must  succeed. 
Your  little  political  heats  many  years  are  past. 

333 


You  are  now  remember' d  but  as  the  editor  of  the 
Every  Day  and  Table  Books.  To  them  appeal. 
You  have  Southey's  testimony  to  their  meritori- 
ousness.  He  must  be  blind  indeed  who  sees  ought 
in  them  but  what  is  good-hearted,  void  of  offence 
to  God  and  man.  I  know  not  a  single  member 
of  the  Fund,  but  to  whomsoever  you  may  refer 
to  me  I  am  ready  to  affirm  that  your  speech  and 
actions  since  I  have  known  you  —  ten  or  eleven 
years  I  think  —  have  been  the  most  opposite  to 
anything  profane  or  irreligious,  and  that  in  your 
domestic  relations  a  kinder  husband  or  father, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  could  not  be.  Suppose  you 
transmitted  your  case,  or  petition,  to  Mr.  Dilke, 
editor  of  the  Athenceum,  with  this  note  of  mine  ; 
he  knows  me,  and  he  may  know  some  of  the 
Literary  Society.  I  am  totally  unacquainted  with 
them. 

With  best  wishes  to  you  and  Mrs.  Hone, 
Yours  faithfully,  C.  Lamb 

DCCXLIII.  — TO   MISS  FRYER 

February  14,  1834. 

Dear  Miss  Fryer, — Your  letter  found  me  just 
returned  from  keeping  my  birthday  (pretty  inno- 
cent!) at  Dover  Street.  I  see  them  pretty  often. 
I  have  since  had  letters  of  business  to  write,  or 
should  have  replied  earlier.  In  one  word,  be  less 
uneasy  about  me ;  I  bear  my  privations  very  well ; 
I  am  not  in  the  depths  of  desolation,  as  hereto- 

334 


fore.  Your  admonitions  are  not  lost  upon  me. 
Your  kindness  has  sunk  into  my  heart.  Have 
faith  in  me !  It  is  no  new  thing  for  me  to  be 
left  to  my  sister.  When  she  is  not  violent,  her 
rambling  chat  is  better  to  me  than  the  sense  and 
sanity  of  this  world.  Her  heart  is  obscured,  not 
buried  ;  it  breaks  out  occasionally  ;  and  one  can 
discern  a  strong  mind  struggling  with  the  billows 
that  have  gone  over  it.  I  could  be  nowhere 
happier  than  under  the  same  roof  with  her.  Her 
memory  is  unnaturally  strong ;  and  from  ages 
past,  if  we  may  so  call  the  earliest  records  of  our 
poor  life,  she  fetches  thousands  of  names  and 
things  that  never  would  have  dawned  upon  me 
again,  and  thousands  from  the  ten  years  she  lived 
before  me.  What  took  place  from  early  girlhood 
to  her  coming  of  age  principally  lives  again  (every 
important  thing  and  every  trifle)  in  her  brain 
with  the  vividness  of  real  presence.  For  twelve 
hours  incessantly  she  will  pour  out  without 
intermission  all  her  past  life,  forgetting  nothing, 
pouring  out  name  after  name  to  the  Waldens  as 
a  dream  ;  sense  and  nonsense  ;  truths  and  errors 
huddled  together  ;  a  medley  between  inspiration 
and  possession.  What  things  we  are !  I  know 
you  will  bear  with  me,  talking  of  these  things. 
It  seems  to  ease  me ;  for  I  have  nobody  to  tell 
these  things  to  now. 

Emma,  I  see,  has  got  a  harp  !  and  is  learning 
to  play.  She  has  framed  her  three  Walton  pic- 
tures, and  pretty  they  look.   That  is  a  book  you 

335 


should  read ;  such  sweet  religion  in  it  —  next 
to  Woolman's !  though  the  subject  be  baits  and 
hooks,  and  worms  and  fishes.  She  has  my  copy 
at  present  to  do  two  more  from. 

Very,  very  tired,  I  began  this  epistle,  having 
been  epistolising  all  the  morning,  and  very  kindly 
would  I  end  it,  could  I  find  adequate  expressions 
to  your  kindness.  We  did  set  our  minds  on 
seeing  you  in  spring.  One  of  us  will  indubitably. 
But  I  am  not  skilled  in  almanac  learning,  to 
know  when  spring  precisely  begins  and  ends. 
Pardon  my  blots;  I  am  glad  you  like  your  book. 
I  wish  it  had  been  half  as  worthy  of  your  accept- 
ance as  John  Woolman.  But  't  is  a  good-natured 
book. 

DCCXLIV.  — TO  MISS  FRYER 

[No  date.] 

My  dear  Miss  Fryer,  —  By  desire  of  Emma 
I  have  attempted  new  words  to  the  old  nonsense 
of  Tartar  Drum;  but  with  the  nonsense  the  sound 
and  spirit  of  the  tune  are  unaccountably  gone, 
and  we  have  agreed  to  discard  the  new  version 
altogether.  As  you  may  be  more  fastidious  in 
singing  mere  silliness,  and  a  string  of  well- 
sounding  images  without  sense  or  coherence  — 
Drums  of  Tartars,  who  use  none,  and  Tulip  trees 
ten  foot  high,  not  to  mention  Spirits  in  Sun- 
beams, &c,  —  than  we  are,  so  you  are  at  liberty 
to  sacrifice  an  enspiriting  movement  to  a  little 

336 


sense,  tho'  I  like  Little-sense  less  than  his  vagary- 
ing  younger  sister  No-sense — so  I  send  them  — 

The  fourth  line  of  first  stanza  is  from  an  old 
ballad. 

Emma  is  looking  weller  and  handsomer  (as 
you  say)  than  ever.  Really,  if  she  goes  on  thus 
improving,  by  the  time  she  is  nine  and  thirty 
she  will  be  a  tolerable  comely  person.  But  I 
may  not  live  to  see  it.  —  I  take  beauty  to  be 
catching — a  cholera  sort  of  thing.  Now,  whether 
the  constant  presence  of  a  handsome  object  — 
for  there  's  only  two  of  us  —  may  not  have  the 
effect  —  but  the  subject  is  delicate,  and  as  my 
old  great-Ant  used  to  say  — "  Andsome  is  as 
andsome  duzz"  —  that  was  my  great-Ant's  way 
of  spelling —  (Emma's  way  of  spelling  Miss  Um- 
fris,  as  I  spell  her  Aunt). 

Most  and  best  kind  things  say  to  yourself  and 
dear  Mother  for  all  your  kindnesses  to  our  Em., 
tho'  in  truth  I  am  a  little  tired  with  her  ever- 
lasting repetition  of  'em.    Yours  very  truly, 

Ch.  Lamb 

love  will  come 

Tune  :  "  The  Tartar  Drum  " 
I 

Guard  thy  feelings,  pretty  Vestal, 
From  the  smooth  Intruder  free ; 

Cage  thine  heart  in  bars  of  chrystal, 
Lock  it  with  a  golden  key : 

Thro'  the  bars  demurely  stealing  — 
Noiseless  footstep,  accent  dumb, 

337 


His  approach  to  none  revealing  — 
Watch,  or  watch  not,  Love  will  come. 

His  approach  to  none  revealing  — 

Watch,  or  watch  not,  Love  will  come  —  Love, 
Watch,  or  watch  not,  Love  will  come. 

II 

Scornful  Beauty  may  deny  him  — 

He  hath  spells  to  charm  disdain ; 
Homely  Features  may  defy  him  — 

Both  at  length  must  wear  the  chain. 
Haughty  Youth  in  Courts  of  Princes  — 

Hermit  poor  with  age  o'ercome  — 
His  soft  plea  at  last  convinces; 

Sooner,  later,  Love  will  come  — 

His  soft  plea  at  length  convinces; 

Sooner,  later,  Love  will  come  —  Love, 
Sooner,  later,  Love  will  come. 

DCCXLV.— TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Church  Street,  Edmonton,  February  22  [1834]. 

Dear  Wordsworth, — I  write  from  a  house  of 
mourning.  The  oldest  and  best  friends  I  have 
left  are  in  trouble.  A  branch  of  them  (and  they 
of  the  best  stock  of  God's  creatures,  I  believe)  is 
establishing  a  school  at  Carlisle.  Her  name  is 
Louisa  Martin,  her  address  75  Castle  Street,  Car- 
lisle; her  qualities  (and  her  motives  for  this 
exertion)  are  the  most  amiable,  most  upright. 
For  thirty  years  she  has  been  tried  by  me,  and 
on  her  behaviour  I  would  stake  my  soul.  O  if 
you  can  recommend  her,  how  would  I  love  you  ! 
if  I  could  love  you  better.    Pray,  pray,  recom- 

338 


mend  her.  She  is  as  good  a  human  creature, — 
next  to  my  sister,  perhaps  the  most  exemplary 
female  I  ever  knew.  Moxon  tells  me  you  would 
like  a  letter  from  me.  You  shall  have  one.  This 
I  cannot  mingle  up  with  any  nonsense  which  you 
usually  tolerate  from,  C.  Lamb.  Need  he  add 
loves  to  wife,  sister,  and  all  ? 

Poor  Mary  is  ill  again,  after  a  short  lucid  in- 
terval of  four  or  five  months.  In  short,  I  may 
call  her  half  dead  to  me. 

Good  you  are  to  me.  Yours  with  fervour  of 
friendship;  forever. 

Turn  over. 

If  you  want  references,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle 
may  be  one.  Louisa's  sister  (as  good  as  she,  she 
cannot  be  better  tho'  she  tries)  educated  the 
daughters  of  the  late  Earl  of  Carnarvon,  and  he 
settled  a  handsome  annuity  on  her  for  life.  In 
short  all  the  family  are  a  sound  rock.  The  pre- 
sent Lord  Carnarvon  married  Howard  of  Gray- 
stock's  sister. 

NOTE 

[Wordsworth  has  written  on  the  wrapper,  "  Lamb's  last 
letter."] 

DCCXLVL  — TO   THOMAS   MANNING 

May  10,  1834. 

You  made  me  feel  so  funny,  so  happy-like ;  it 
was  as  if  I  was  reading  one  of  your  old  letters 
taken  out  at  hazard  any  time  between  the  last 

339 


twenty  years,  't  was  so  the  same.  The  unity  of 
place,  a  garden !  The  old  Dramatis  Personae,  a 
landlady  and  daughter.  The  puns  the  same  in 
mould.  Will  nothing  change  you?  'T  is  but  a 
short  week  since  honest  Ryle  and  I  were  lament- 
ing the  gone-by  days  of  Manning  and  whist. 
How  savourily  did  he  remember  them!  Might 
some  great  year  but  bring  them  back  again ! 
This  was  my  exclaim,  and  R.  did  not  ask  for  an 
explanation. 

I  have  had  a  scurvy  nine  years  of  it,  and  am 
now  in  the  sorry  fifth  act.  Twenty  weeks  nigh 
has  she  been  now  violent,  with  but  a  few  sound 
months  before,  and  these  in  such  dejection  that 
her  fever  might  seem  a  relief  to  it.  I  tried  to 
bring  her  to  town  in  the  winter  once  or  twice, 
but  it  failed.  Tuthill  led  me  to  expect  that  this 
illness  would  lengthen  with  her  years,  and  it  has 
cruelly  —  with  that  new  feature  of  despondency 
after.  I  am  with  her  alone  now  in  a  proper 
house.  She  is,  I  hope,  recovering.  We  play 
picquet,  and  it  is  like  the  old  times  a  while,  then 
goes  off.  I  struggle  to  town  rarely,  and  then 
to  see  London,  with  little  other  motive;  for 
what  is  left  there  hardly?  The  streets  and  shops 
entertaining  ever,  else  I  feel  as  in  a  desert,  and 
get  me  home  to  my  cave.  Save  that  once  a 
month  I  pass  a  day,  a  gleam  in  my  life,  with 
Cary  at  the  Museum  (he  is  the  flower  of  clergy- 
men) and  breakfast  next  morning  with  Robinson. 
I  look  to  tbis  as  a  treat.    It  sustains  me.    C.  is 

34° 


a  dear  fellow,  with  but  two  vices,  which  in  any 
less  good  than  himself  would  be  crimes  past  re- 
demption. He  has  no  relish  for  Parson  Adams ; 
hints  that  he  might  not  be  a  very  great  Greek 
scholar  after  all  (does  Fielding  hint  that  he  was 
a  Porson  ?)  —  and  prefers  Ye  shepherds  so  cheerful 
and  gay,  and  My  banks  they  are  furnished  with  bees, 
to  The  Schoolmistress.  I  have  not  seen  Wright's, 
but  the  faithfulness  of  C.  Mary  and  I  can  attest. 
For  last  year,  in  a  good  interval,  I  giving  some 
lessons  to  Emma,  now  Mrs.  Moxon,  in  the  sense 
part  of  her  Italian  (I  knew  no  words),  Mary 
pertinaciously  undertook,  being  sixty-nine,  to 
read  the  Inferno  all  thro'  with  the  help  of  his 
translation,  and  we  got  thro'  it  with  dictionaries 
and  grammars,  of  course  to  our  satisfaction.  Her 
perseverance  was  gigantic,  almost  painful.  Her 
head  was  over  her  task,  like  a  sucking  bee,  morn 
to  night.  We  were  beginning  the  Purgatory, 
but  got  on  less  rapidly,  our  great  authority  for 
grammar,  Emma,  being  fled,  but  should  have 
proceeded  but  for  this  misfortune.  Do  not  come 
to  town  without  apprising  me.  We  must  all 
three  meet  somehow  and  "drink  a  cup." 

Yours,  C.  L. 

Mary  strives  and  struggles  to  be  content  when 
she  is  well.  Last  year  when  we  talked  of  being 
dull  (we  had  just  lost  our  seven-years-nearly  in- 
mate), and  Gary's  invitation  came,  she  said, 
"  Did  not  I  say  something  or  other  would  turn 

341 


up?"  In  her  first  walk  out  of  the  house,  she 
would  read  every  auction  advertisement  along 
the  road,  and  when  I  would  stop  her  she  said, 
"These  are  my  play-bills. "  She  felt  glad  to  get 
into  the  world  again,  but  then  follows  lowness. 
She  is  getting  about,  tho',  I  very  much  hope. 
She  is  rising,  and  will  claim  her  morning  pic- 
quet.  I  go  to  put  this  in  the  post  first.  I  walk 
nine  or  ten  miles  a  day,  always  up  the  road, 
dear  London-wards.  Fields,  flowers,  birds,  and 
green  lanes  I  have  no  heart  for.  The  bare  road 
is  cheerful,  and  almost  as  good  as  a  street.  I 
saunter  to  the  Red  Lion  duly,  as  you  used  to 
the  Peacock. 

NOTE 
[Lamb's  last  letter  to  Manning.] 

DCCXLVII.  — TO   CHARLES   C.   CLARKE 

[No  date.    End  of  June,  1834.] 

We  heard  the  music  in  the  Abbey  at  Winch- 
more  Hill !  and  the  notes  were  incomparably 
soften'd  by  the  distance.  Novello's  chromatics 
were  distinctly  audible.  Clara  was  faulty  in  B 
flat.  Otherwise  she  sang  like  an  angel.  The 
trombone  and  Beethoven's  walzes  were  the  best. 
Who  played  the  oboe? 

NOTE 

[The  letter  refers  to  the  performance  of  Handel's  "  Crea- 
tion," at  the  Musical  Festival,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on 

342 


June  24,  1834,  when  Novello  and  Atwood  were  the  organists, 
and  Clara  Novello  (Countess  Gigliucci)  was  one  of  the 
singers.] 


DCCXLVTII.—  TO  JOHN   FORSTER 

[June  25,  1834.] 

Dear  F., — I  simply  sent  for  the  Miltons  be- 
cause Alsop  has  some  Books  of  mine,  and  I 
thought  they  might  travel  with  them.  But  keep 
'em  as  much  longer  as  you  like.  I  never  trouble 
my  head  with  other  people's  quarrels;  I  do  not 
always  understand  my  own.  I  seldom  see  them 
in  Dover  Street.  I  know  as  little  as  the  Man  in 
the  Moon  about  your  joint  transactions,  and  care 
as  little.  If  you  have  lost  a  little  portion  of  my 
"good  will,"  it  is  that  you  do  not  come  and 
see  me.  Arrange  with  Procter,  when  you  have 
done  with  your  moving  accidents. 

Yours,  ambulaturus,  C.  L. 

DCCXLIX.  —  TO   J.    FULLER   RUSSELL 

[Summer,  1834.] 

Mr.  Lamb's  compliments,  and  shall  be  happy 
to  look  over  the  lines  as  soon  as  ever  Mr.  Russell 
shall  send  them.  He  is  at  Mr.  Walden's, — 
Church  {not  Bury)  St.,  Edmd. 

Line  10.  "Ween,"  and  "wist,"  and  "wot," 
and  "eke"  are  antiquated  frippery,  and  unmod- 
ernize  a  poem  rather  than  give  it  an  antique  air, 

343 


as  some  strong  old  words  may  do.  "  I  guess,"  "  I 
know,"  "  I  knew,"  are  quite  as  significant. 

31.  Why  "  ee  " — barbarous  Scoticism  !  — 
when  "  eye  "  is  much  better  and  chimes  to  "  cav- 
alry "  ?  A  sprinkling  of  disused  words  where  all 
the  style  else  is  after  the  approved  recent  fashion 
teases  and  puzzles. 

37*        [Anon  the  storm  begins  to  slake, 
The  sullen  clouds  to  melt  away, 
The  moon  becalmed  in  a  blue  lake 
Looks  down  with  melancholy  ray.] 

The  moon  becalmed  in  a  blue  lake  would  be 
more  apt  to  look  up.  I  see  my  error  —  the  sky  is 
the  lake  —  and  beg  you  to  laugh  at  it. 

59.  What  is  a  maiden's  "  een,"  south  of  the 
Tweed  ?  You  may  as  well  call  her  prettily  turned 
ears  her  "  lugs." 

"  On  the  maiden's  lugs  they  fall  "  (verse  79). 

144.  "A  coy  young  Miss  "  will  never  do.  For 
though  you  are  presumed  to  be  a  modern,  writing 
only  of  days  of  old,  yet  you  should  not  write  a 
word  purely  unintelligible  to  your  heroine.  Some 
understanding  should  be  kept  up  between  you. 
"  Miss  "  is  a  nickname  not  two  centuries  old ; 
came  in  at  about  the  Restoration.  The  "  King's 
Misses  "  is  the  oldest  use  of  it  I  can  remember. 
It  is  Mistress  Anne  Page,  not  Miss  Page.  Modern 
names  and  usages  should  be  kept  out  of  sight  in 
an  old  subject.  W.  Scott  was  sadly  faulty  in  this 
respect. 

344 


2o8.  [Tear  of  sympathy.]  Pity's  sacred  dew. 
Sympathy  is  a  young  lady's  word,  rife  in  modern 
novels,  and  is  almost  always  wrongly  applied.  To 
sympathize  is  to  feel  with,  not  simply  for  another. 
I  write  verses  and  sympathize  with  you.  You  have 
the  toothache,  I  have  not ;  I  feel  for  you,  I  can- 
not sympathize. 

243.  What  is  "sheen "  ?  Has  it  more  signifi- 
cance than  "bright"  ?  Richmond  in  its  old  name 
was  Shene.  Would  you  call  an  omnibus  to  take 
you  to  Shene  ?  How  the  "all's  right "  man  would 
stare ! 

36  3'      [The  violet  nestled  in  the  shade, 

Which  fills  with  perfume  all  the  glade, 
Yet  bashful  as  a  timid  maid 
Thinks  to  elude  the  searching  eye 
Of  every  stranger  passing  by, 
Might  well  compare  with  Emily.] 

A  strangely  involved  simile.  The  maiden  is  lik- 
en'd  to  a  violet  which  has  been  just  before  likened 
to  a  maid.  Yet  it  reads  prettily,  and  I  would  not 
have  it  alter'd. 

420.  "Een"  come  again?  In  line  407  you 
speak  it  out  "  eye  "  bravely  like  an  Englishman. 

468.  Sorceresses  do  not  entice  by  wrinkles, 
but,  being  essentially  aged,  appear  in  assumed 
beauty. 

NOTE 

[This  communication  was  sent  to  Notes  and  Queries  by  the 
late  Mr.  J.  Fuller  Russell,  F.S. A.,  with  this  explanation  :  "  I 
was  residing  at  Enfield  in  the  Cambridge  Long  Vacation,  1834, 
and  —  perhaps  to  the  neglect  of  more  improving  pursuits  — 

345 


composed  a  metrical  novel,  named  '  Emily  de  Wilton,'  in  three 
parts.  When  the  first  of  them  was  completed,  I  ventured  to 
introduce  myself  to  Charles  Lamb  (who  was  living  at  Edmon- 
ton at  the  time),  and  telling  him  what  I  had  done,  and  that  I 
had  '  scarcely  heart  to  proceed  until  I  had  obtained  the  opinion 
of  a  competent  judge  respecting  my  verses,'  I  asked  him  to 
'  while  away  an  idle  hour  in  their  perusal,'  adding, '  I  fear  you 
will  think  me  very  rude  and  very  intrusive,  but  I  am  one  of  the 
most  nervous  souls  in  Christendom.'  Moved,  possibly,  by  this 
diffident  (not  to  say  unusual)  confession,  Elia  speedily  gave  his 
consent." 

The  poem  was  never  printed.  Lamb's  pains  in  this  matter 
serve  to  show  how  kindly  disposed  he  was  in  these  later  years 
to  all  young  men;  and  how  exact  a  sense  of  words  he  had. — 
E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DCCL.  — TO  J.  FULLER  RUSSELL 

[Summer,  1834.] 

Sir, — I  hope  you  will  finish  Emily.  The  story 
I  cannot  at  this  stage  anticipate.  Some  looseness 
of  diction  I  have  taken  liberty  to  advert  to.  It 
wants  a  little  more  severity  of  style.  There  are 
too  many  prettinesses,  but  parts  of  the  poem  are 
better  than  pretty,  and  I  thank  you  for  the 
perusal.       Your  humble  Servant,       C.  Lamb 

Perhaps  you  will  favour  me  with  a  call  while 
you  stay. 

DCCLL  — TO   CHARLES  W.  DILKE 

[No  date.    End  of  July,  1834.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  am  totally  incapable  of  doing 
346 


what  you  suggest  at  present,  and  think  it  right  to 
tell  you  so  without  delay.  It  would  shock  me,  who 
am  shocked  enough  already,  to  sit  down  to  write 
about  it.  I  have  no  letters  of  poor  C.  By  and 
bye  what  scraps  I  have  shall  be  yours.  Pray  ex- 
cuse me.  It  is  not  for  want  of  obliging  you,  I 
assure  you.  For  your  box  we  most  cordially  feel 
thankful.  I  shall  be  your  debtor  in  my  poor  way. 
I  do  assure  you  I  am  incapable.  Again,  excuse 
me.  Yours  sincerely,  C.  L. 

NOTE 

[Coleridge's  death  had  occurred  on  July  25,  in  his  sixty- 
second  year ;  and  Dilke  had  written  to  Lamb  asking  for  some 
words  on  that  event,  for  The  Atherneum.  A  little  while  later 
a  request  was  made  by  John  Forster  that  Lamb  would  write 
something  for  the  album  of  a  Mr.  Keymer.  It  was  then  that 
Lamb  wrote  the  few  words  that  stand  under  the  title  On  the 
Death  of  Coleridge.  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

DCCLII.  — TO  REV.  JAMES  GILLMAN 

Edmonton,  August  5,  1834. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  The  sad  week  being  over,  I 
must  write  to  you  to  say  that  I  was  glad  of  being 
spared  from  attending ;  I  have  no  words  to  ex- 
press my  feeling  with  you  all.  I  can  only  say 
that  when  you  think  a  short  visit  from  me  would 
be  acceptable,  when  your  father  and  mother 
shall  be  able  to  see  me  with  comfort,  I  will  come 
to  the  bereaved  house.  Express  to  them  my  ten- 
derest  regards  and  hopes  that  they  will  continue 

347 


our  friends  still.  We  both  love  and  respect  them 
as  much  as  a  human  being  can,  and  finally  thank 
them  with  our  hearts  for  what  they  have  been  to 
the  poor  departed.    God  bless  you  all, 

C.  Lamb 

DCCLIII.  — TO  J.  H.  GREEN 

August  26,  1834. 

I  thank  you  deeply  for  a  copy  of  the  will 
(Coleridge's),  which  I  had  seen,  but  without  the 
codicil  at  Highgate.  My  sister  and  myself  are 
highly  gratified  at  the  affectionate  remembrance 
from  our  dear  old  friend.  I  will  endeavour  to 
collect  and  send  all  the  fragments  we  possess  of 
his  handwriting  from  leaves  of  good  old  books, 
&c.  Letters  I  fear  I  have  none,  having  been  long 
improvident  of  preserving  any.  Accept  our  grat- 
itude for  your  reverential  care  of  his  memory  and 
wishes  C.  Lamb 

DCCLIV.  —  TO  H.  F.  CARY 

September  12,  1834. 

Dear  C,  —  We  long  to  see  you,  and  hear 
account  of  your  peregrinations,  of  the  Tun  at 
Heidelburg,  the  Clock  at  Strasburg,  the  statue 
at  Rotterdam,  the  dainty  Rhenish  and  poignant 
Moselle  wines,  Westphalian  hams,  and  Botargoes 
of  Altona.  But  perhaps  you  have  seen  not  tasted 
any  of  these  things. 

348 


Yours,  very  glad  to  claim  you  back  again  to 
your  proper  centre,  books  and  Bibliothecae, 

C.  and  M.  Lamb 

"  By  Cot's  plessing  we  will  not  be  absence  at 
the  grace." 

I  have  only  got  your  note  just  now  per  negli- 
gentiam  periniqui  Moxoni. 

DCCLV.  — TO  H.  F.  CARY 

October,  1834. 

I  protest  I  know  not  in  what  words  to  invest 
my  sense  of  the  shameful  violation  of  hospitality, 
which  I  was  guilty  of  on  that  fatal  Wednesday. 
Let  it  be  blotted  from  the  calendar.  Had  it  been 
committed  at  a  layman's  house,  say  a  merchant's 
or  manufacturer's,  a  cheesemonger's  or  green- 
grocer's, or,  to  go  higher,  a  barrister's,  a  member 
of  Parliament's,  a  rich  banker's,  I  should  have 
felt  alleviation,  a  drop  of  self-pity.  But  to  be 
seen  deliberately  to  go  out  of  the  house  of  a 
clergyman  drunk  !  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England  too  !  not  that  alone,  but  of  an  expounder 
of  that  dark  Italian  Hierophant,  an  exposition 
little  short  of  his  who  dared  unfold  the  Apoca- 
lypse :  divine  riddles  both  and  (without  supernal 
grace  vouchsafed)  Arks  not  to  be  fingered  with- 
out present  blasting  to  the  touchers.  And,  then, 
from  what  house !  Not  a  common  glebe  or  vic- 
arage (which  yet  had  been  shameful),  but  from 

349 


a  kingly  repository  of  sciences,  human  and  di- 
vine, with  the  primate  of  England  for  its  guard- 
ian, arrayed  in  public  majesty,  from  which  the 
profane  vulgar  are  bid  fly. 

Could  all  those  volumes  have  taught  me  no- 
thing better  !  With  feverish  eyes  on  the  succeed- 
ing dawn  I  opened  upon  the  faint  light,  enough 
to  distinguish,  in  a  strange  chamber  not  imme- 
diately to  be  recognised,  garters,  hose,  waistcoat, 
neckerchief,  arranged  in  dreadful  order  and  pro- 
portion, which  I  knew  was  not  mine  own.  'Tis 
the  common  symptom,  on  awakening,  I  judge 
my  last  night's  condition  from.  A  tolerable  scat- 
tering on  the  floor  I  hail  as  being  too  probably 
my  own,  and  if  the  candle-stick  be  not  removed, 
I  assoil  myself.  But  this  finical  arrangement, 
this  finding  everything  in  the  morning  in  exact 
diametrical  rectitude,  torments  me.  By  whom 
was  I  divested  ?  Burning  blushes!  not  by  the  fair 
hands  of  nymphs,  the  Buffam  Graces  ?  Remote 
whispers  suggested  that  I  coached  it  home  in  tri- 
umph —  far  be  that  from  working  pride  in  me, 
for  I  was  unconscious  of  the  locomotion  ;  that 
a  young  Mentor  accompanied  a  reprobate  old 
Telemachus  ;  that,  the  Trojan  like,  he  bore  his 
charge  upon  his  shoulders,  while  the  wretched 
incubus,  in  glimmering  sense,  hiccuped  drunken 
snatches  of  flying  on  the  bats'  wings  after  sunset. 
An  aged  servitor  was  also  hinted  at,  to  make 
disgrace  more  complete :  one,  to  whom  my 
ignominy  may  offer  further  occasions  of  revolt 

35° 


(to  which  he  was  before  too  fondly  inclining) 
from  the  true  faith ;  for,  at  a  sight  of  my  help- 
lessness, what  more  was  needed  to  drive  him  to 
the  advocacy  of  independency  ?  Occasion  led  me 
through  Great  Russell  Street  yesterday.  I  gazed 
at  the  great  knocker.  My  feeble  hands  in  vain 
essayed  to  lift  it.  I  dreaded  that  Argus  Portitor, 
who  doubtless  lanterned  me  out  on  that  prodi- 
gious night.  I  called  the  Elginian  marbles.  They 
were  cold  to  my  suit.  I  shall  never  again,  I  said, 
on  the  wide  gates  unfolding,  say  without  fear  of 
thrusting  back,  in  a  light  but  a  peremptory  air, 
"  I  am  going  to  Mr.  Cary's."  I  passed  by  the 
walls  of  Balclutha.  I  had  imaged  to  myself  a  zo- 
diac of  third  Wednesdays  irradiating  by  glimpses 
the  Edmonton  dulness.  I  dreamed  of  Highmore ! 
I  am  de-vited  to  come  on  Wednesdays. 

Villanous  old  age  that,  with  second  childhood, 
brings  linked  hand  in  hand  her  inseparable  twin, 
new  inexperience,  which  knows  not  effects  of 
liquor.  Where  I  was  to  have  sate  for  a  sober, 
middle-aged-and-a-half  gentleman,  literary  too, 
the  neat-fingered  artist  can  educe  no  notions  but 
of  a  dissolute  Silenus,  lecturing  natural  philoso- 
phy to  a  jeering  Chromius  or  a  Mnasilus.  Pudet. 
From  the  context  gather  the  lost  name  of . 

DCCLVL  — TO  H.  F.  CARY 

[October  18,  1834.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  The  unbounded  range  of  muni- 
35i 


ficence  presented  to  my  choice  staggers  me. 
What  can  twenty  votes  do  for  one  hundred  and 
two  widows  ?  I  cast  my  eyes  hopeless  among 
the  viduage. 

N.  B.  Southey  might  be  ashamed  of  himself 
to  let  his  aged  mother  stand  at  the  top  of  the 
list,  with  his  j[ioo  a  year  and  butt  of  sack. 
Sometimes  I  sigh  over  No.  I  2,  Mrs.  Carve-ill, 
some  poor  relation  of  mine,  no  doubt.  No.  1 5 
has  my  wishes ;  but  then  she  is  a  Welsh  one. 
I  have  Ruth  upon  No.  21.  I'd  tug  hard  for 
No.  24.  No.  25  is  an  anomaly:  there  can  be  no 
Mrs.  Hogg.  No.  34  ensnares  me.  No.  73  should 
not  have  met  so  foolish  a  person.  No.  92  may 
bob  it  as  she  likes ;  but  she  catches  no  cherry  of 
me.  So  I  have  even  fixedat  hap-hazard,  as  you  '11 
see.      Yours,  every  third  Wednesday, 

C.  L. 

NOTE 

[Talfourd  states  that  the  note  is  in  answer  to  a  letter  en- 
closing a  list  of  candidates  for  a  Widows'  Fund  Society,  for 
which  he  was  entitled  to  vote.  A  Mrs.  Southey  headed  the 
list.] 

DCCLVII.  — TO    MRS.   NORRIS 

[Edmonton,  November,  1834.] 

Dear  Mrs.  Norris,  —  I  found  Mary  on  my 
return  not  worse,  and  she  is  now  no  better.  I  send 
all  my  nonsense  I  could  scrape  together,  and  wish 
your  young  ladies  well  thro'  them.    I  hope  they 

352 


will  like  Amwell.  Be  in  no  hurry  to  return  them. 
Six  months  hence  will  do.  Remember  me  kindly 
to  them  and  to  Richard.  Also  to  Mary  and  her 
cousin.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

Pray  give  me  a  line  to  say  you  received  'em. 
I  send  'em  Wednesday  1 9th,  from  the  Roebuck. 

DCCLVIII.  — TO    MR.    CHILDS 

Monday.    Church  Street,  Edmonton 
(not  Enfield,  as  you  erroneously  directed  yours). 
[December,  1834.] 

Dear  Sir,  —  The  volume  which  you  seem  to 
want  is  not  to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  I  with 
difficulty  procured  a  copy  for  myself.  Yours  is 
gone  to  enlighten  the  tawny  Hindoos.  What 
a  supreme  felicity  to  the  author  (only  he  is  no 
traveller)  on  the  Ganges  or  Hydaspes  (Indian 
streams)  to  meet  a  smutty  Gentoo  ready  to  burst 
with  laughing  at  the  tale  of  Bo-Bo !  for  doubt- 
less it  hath  been  translated  into  all  the  dialects 
of  the  East.  I  grieve  the  less  that  Europe  should 
want  it.  I  cannot  gather  from  your  letter,  whether 
you  are  aware  that  a  second  series  of  the  Essays 
is  published  by  Moxon,  in  Dover  Street,  Picca- 
dilly, called  The  Last  Essays  of  Elia,  and,  I  am 
told,  is  not  inferior  to  the  former.  Shall  I  order 
a  copy  for  you,  and  will  you  accept  it?  Shall 
I  lend  you,  at  the  same  time,  my  sole  copy  of  the 
former  volume  (oh  !  return  it)  for  a  month  or 

353 


two  ?  In  return,  you  shall  favour  me  with  the 
loan  of  one  of  those  Norfolk-bred  grunters  that 
you  laud  so  highly;  I  promise  not  to  keep  it 
above  a  day.  What  a  funny  name  Bungay  is !  I 
never  dreamt  of  a  correspondent  thence.  I  used 
to  think  of  it  as  some  Utopian  town  or  borough 
in  Gotham  land.  I  now  believe  in  its  existence, 
as  part  of  merry  England ! 

[Some  lines  scratched  out^\ 
The  part  I  have  scratched  out  is  the  best  of  the 
letter.    Let  me  have  your  commands. 

Ch.  Lamb,  alias  Eli  a 

note 

[Talfourd  thus  explains  this  letter:  "  In  December,  1834, 
Mr.  Lamb  received  a  letter  from  a  gentleman,  a  stranger  to 
him,  —  Mr.  Childs  of  Bungay,  —  whose  copy  of  Elia  had  been 
sent  on  an  Oriental  voyage,  and  who,  in  order  to  replace  it, 
applied  to  Mr.  Lamb."  Mr.  Childs  was  a  printer.  His  busi- 
ness subsequently  became  that  of  Messrs.  R.  &  R.  Clark, 
which  still  flourishes.] 

DCCLIX.  — TO    MRS.    GEORGE    DYER 

December  22,  1834. 

Dear  Mrs.  Dyer,  —  I  am  very  uneasy  about 
a  Book  which  I  either  have  lost  or  left  at  your 
house  on  Thursday.  It  was  the  book  I  went  out 
to  fetch  from  Miss  Buffam's,  while  the  tripe  was 
frying.  It  is  called  Phillip's  Theatrum  Poeta- 
rum;  but  it  is  an  English  book.  I  think  I  left 
it  in  the  parlour.  It  is  Mr.  Cary's  book,  and  I 
would  not  lose  it  for  the  world.    Pray,  if  you 

354 


find  it,  book  it  at  the  Swan,  Snow  Hill,  by  an 
Edmonton  stage  immediately,  directed  to  Mr. 
Lamb,  Church  Street,  Edmonton,  or  write  to  say 
you  cannot  find  it.  I  am  quite  anxious  about  it. 
If  it  is  lost,  I  shall  never  like  tripe  again. 
With  kindest  love  to  Mr.  Dyer  and  all, 

Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb 

note 

[This  is  the  last  letter  of  Charles  Lamb,  who  tripped  and 
fell  in  Church  Street,  Edmonton,  on  December  22,  and  died 
of  erysipelas  on  December  27.  At  the  time  of  his  death 
Lamb  was  sixty,  all  but  a  few  weeks. 

Mary  Lamb,  with  occasional  lapses  into  sound  health,  sur- 
vived him  until  May  20,  1847.  At  first  she  continued  to  live 
at  Edmonton,  but  a  few  years  later  moved  to  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Parsons,  sister  of  her  old  nurse,  Miss  James,  in  St. 
John's  Wood.  —  E.  V.  Lucas.] 

VThe  following  undated  letters  are  here  given. 
The  first  to  William  Ayrton  was  probably  written 
about  May  14,  1821,  and  the  second  should  have 
been  inserted  after  the  first  letter  to  Vincent  Novello 
on  p.  233  of  this  volume  :] 

DCCLX.  — TO  WILLIAM  AYRTON 

[Undated.] 

Dear  A.,  —  We  are  at  home  this  Evening. 
Excuse  forms  from, 

Your  uninformed,  C.  L. 

We'nsdy. 

I  think  Madame  Noblet  the  least  graceful 
dancer  I  ever  did  not  see. 

355 


DCCLXI.— TO  WILLIAM  AYRTON 

Enfield,  Thursday. 

Dear  Ayrton,  —  Novello  paid  us  a  visit  yes- 
terday, and  I  very  much  wished  you  with  us. 
Our  conversation  was  principally,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose, upon  Music;  and  he  desiring  me  to  give  him 
my  real  opinion  respecting  the  distinct  grades  of 
excellence  in  all  the  eminent  composers  of  the 
Italian,  German,  and  English  Schools,  I  have 
done  it,  rather  to  oblige  him,  than  from  any  over- 
weening opinion  I  have  of  my  own  judgment  on 
that  science.  Such  as  it  is,  I  submit  it  to  better 
critics,  and  am,  dear  Ayrton, 

Yours  sincerely,        Ch.  Lamb 

P.  S.  You  will  find  the  Essay  over  leaf —  that 
is  to  say,  if  you  look  for  it  there. 

FREE   THOUGHTS   ON   SEVERAL   EMINENT 
COMPOSERS 

Some  cry  up  Haydn,  some  Mozart, 
Just  as  the  whim  bites.    For  my  part, 
I  do  not  care  a  farthing  candle 
For  either  of  them,  or  for  Handel. 
Cannot  a  man  live  free  and  easy, 
Without  admiring  Pergolesi ! 
Or  thro'  the  world  with  comfort  go 
That  never  heard  of  Doctor  Blow ! 
So  help  me  God,  I  hardly  have  ; 
And  yet  I  eat,  and  drink,  and  shave, 
Like  other  people,  (if  you  watch  it,) 
And  know  no  more  of  stave  or  crotchet 

356 


Than  did  the  primitive  Peruvians ; 

Or  those  old  ante-queer  Diluvians 

That  lived  in  the  unwash'd  world  with  Tubal, 

Before  that  dirty  Blacksmith  Jubal, 

By  stroke  on  anvil,  or  by  summ'at, 

Found  out,  to  his  great  surprise,  the  gamut. 

I  care  no  more  for  Cimerosa 

Than  he  did  for  Salvator  Rosa, 

Being  no  Painter ;  and  bad  luck 

Be  mine,  if  I  can  bear  that  Gluck ! 

Old  Tycho  Brahe  and  modern  Herschel 

Had  something  in  'em  ;  but  who 's  Purcel  ? 

The  devil  with  his  foot  so  cloven, 

For  aught  I  care,  may  take  Beethoven ; 

And,  if  the  bargain  does  not  suit, 

I  '11  throw  him  Weber  in  to  boot ! 

There 's  not  the  splitting  of  a  splinter 

To  chus  'twixt  him  last  named,  and  Winter. 

Of  Doctor  Pepusch  old  queen  Dido 

Knew  just  as  much,  God  knows,  as  I  do. 

I  would  not  go  four  miles  to  visit 

Sebastian  Bach  —  or  Batch  —  which  is  it  ? 

No  more  I  would  for  Bononcini. 

As  for  Novello  and  Rossini, 

I  shall  not  say  a  word  to  grieve  'em, 

Because  they  're  living.    So  I  leave  'em. 

DCCLXII.  — TO  J.  BADAMS 

[Undated.] 

Dear  Badams, — I  am  very,  very  sorry  at  my 
heatedness  yesterday,  which  spoil'd  the  pleasure 
I  should  have  taken  in  seeing  you  better ;  but  I 
had  had  a  four  or  five  hours  hot  walk,  with  the 
delicate  task  of  dissuading  a  friend  from  a  pur- 
pose of  taking  a  house  here,  which  friend  would 

357 


have  attracted  down  crowds  of  literary  men, 
which  men  would  have  driven  me  wild  ;  and  in 
my  rage  it  seem'd  to  me  that  the  person  I  un- 
justly fell  upon  was  meditating  the  same  sort  of 
colonization  here.  Respects  and  sincere  likings 
to  Mrs.  Badams,  and  the  most  humble  apology 
C.  L.  can  offer. 


358 


PRINTED  BV  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  &  CO. 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A. 

Cfic  UtbrrsiDc  Pices 


